I'm walking around a run down old town. It's nighttime, but the sky is still lit like the sun hasn't completely left. I'm not who I am, instead I'm a young woman. I think I am a journalist or just a photographer. I'm carrying this strange Polaroid camera. It looks a like a typical Nikon camera except for horizontal slit at the bottom that slowly rolls out the captured Polaroids.
The houses and garages are made of paint-stripping rotting wood. They're all closely knit together. The place looks like it was abruptly abandoned. Cheap Christmas lights give off a soft amber glow as I walk on well-worn alleyway concrete. Despite the claustrophobic nature of each alleyway, I could imagine the comfy nature of the neighborhood it once was.
I hear crickets chirping and frogs croaking as I walk around.
I stop to snap a picture and notice that each one I capture gives a look into the past of the town. In one of the pictures, the decaying house I captured appeared lived-in and peachy. It was well maintained and welcoming. The garage doors were a calming deep green and the outer walls were covered in white vinyl plating.
I continue taking pictures for sometime before I take my leave.
As I walk up a severely damaged and patched ramp to the highway next to the town, a hooded man starts chasing me with a knife. They're wearing a gray hoodie with unintelligible varsity numbers on their chest.
I get to the highway where cars are whizzing. The man eventually reaches me as I run out of breath.
But then I wake up.