There is a man, a boy, a girl, and a lover.

There is a knife digging deep into the lover’s back; a knife digging deep into the girl’s chest, rife with horror and despair; incredulity making a show of all sorts out of the people in that all-too-vivid scene of illogical murder in the middle of the Plaza streets. There is a boy with a plastic bag of stolen goods, standing in front of a girl who only had to be kind for one second before letting the young thief laugh a cruel, harried laugh and leave with a manic smile on his face. There is a man. The weather is cold even though the sun is high up in the sky, and the man is livid. His eyes are never focused, his hands clench and unclench, hungry for the next neck to wrap it around. The man doesn’t smile, and the lover and the girl try to get past him but the man sees, has better eyes than the onlookers who have nothing better to do in a nightmare than to look around in disinterest and make the fear seem more palpable, frighteningly mundane… The lover drags the girl away in a hurry, but the man drags the knife away from its sheath and lets it soar straight into the back of the lover who looks so much like my Julius John. And then the knife that buries itself inside my chest is colder than the weather and suddenly it’s hot, and the boy thief is right there looking on and there is a dead body fifty metres from where I lay sobbing and clutching at air trying to reach the fallen lover, and the man looms over us and twists his head for a moment before his mouth arches in a smile and his chapped lips bleed where the smile forces it to part—

And then, the nightmare.


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