CHOSEN

I sat in a clinic that reeked of bleach and paint, listening to everyone recount almost identical versions of the dream everyone was having at the time. I could sense the excitement in the room, the euphoria bordering on hysteria, but also an undertone of threat and intolerance that made me pick my words with care.

It was the first time I lied at a clinic. I just repeated what everyone else had said, changing a few of what I thought were the more minor details.

We spilled out afterwards onto a scrubbed-raw street. The air, even outside, had a curious antiseptic tang. The sky was a liquid, mouthwash blue. Everything was so clean, so wiped, so scoured.

‘So you finally had the dream?’ I heard someone ask. He was from the clinic. The name on his badge said Zacharay. He was keeping pace with me.

‘I guess it was just a matter of time, like everyone says,’ I said.

He gripped my wrist, stopping me in the middle of the street, and I felt a chill go through me.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to be scared.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, don’t worry, it’ll come. I won’t tell.’

That’s how love starts, isn’t it? That kind, forgiving beginning. The opening up of trust.

A terrible pressure in my ears, then my body being squeezed and crushed, or perhaps forced inside out, the awful feeling of helplessness as I lay there unable to do anything about what was happening to me. I cried out, screamed not for help but just out of terror.

When I woke up, my body still carried with it