A spooky creative writing snippet from Lotte…
I dream about it every night. Wide-eyed visuals flash through my mind, pictures of myself up on stage performing all those age old numbers. The audience is always empty. It hadn’t used to be, but over time, everyone just left. I remember the days when it was a pleasure to watch myself sing. Not anymore.
It progresses onwards. I hear a high-pitched screeching noise, like metal being raked across a chalkboard, like a crossbolt piercing my ears. The pictures slowly desaturate into blackness until I’m left standing alone in a cramped, old room. I pull on the light chain and I wake up. But not tonight. Tonight the chain breaks off, leaving me stranded here. I grope around in the dark, looking for some kind of salvation, a way to get out of here. Feeling some sort of microphone on the ground, I put it to my mouth and switch it on. The sound of a Polaroid snaps in front of me and for a brief second I see my reflection holding a gun up to her face instead. Then silence. I find myself awake in a cold sweat, having fallen onto the floor from my cot. Crap. I just can’t do this anymore, losing sleep to my own mind so it can live out its stupid sadistic fantasy, but I’m driven by the constant need to remember. The need to relive a time when I was someone I could be proud of.
