I hang my head low as tears fall uncontrollably. Where did my parents go? Is this a dream? What is happening to me? I squeeze my eyes shut. Please, let this be a dream.
My face is streaked with tears, but I don't care about the stares burning into me. I turn away from my house—or whatever this place is now—and start walking. The park. That's where I always go when I need to clear my head. It's where I go to smoke.
But as I move through the streets, my stomach twists. The town is wrong. The buildings, the signs, even the people—they all look different. Their clothes, their hair, the way they walk… nothing feels familiar. I don't feel good.
When I finally reach the park, my heart sinks. The swings are gone. The playground isn't the same. Everything has been changed, modernized, like time jumped forward without me.
I make my way to my usual spot under the maple tree, where there's a bench. My chest tightens when I see it's still there—the one thing that hasn't changed.
I sink onto the seat, reaching into the inner pocket of my coat. My fingers brush against the familiar shape of my cigarette pack. I pull one out, place it between my lips, and flick my lighter. A flame sparks. I inhale deeply, the taste of tobacco settling in my lungs.
At least this is still the same.
I can't just give up. Kimberly, Mom, and Dad must be waiting for me.
I stand up, flicking my half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crushing it under my shoe. The bitter taste of tobacco lingers in my mouth, mixing with the dryness in my throat. Maybe Kimberly is home. Maybe she's waiting for me, wondering where I am.
I pick up the half-ruined bouquet from the bench and start walking. It's fine. Everything will be fine.
I glance at my watch—11 p.m. My chest tightens. How the hell did time pass so fast? It was barely past 9 when I got here. My footsteps quicken, but as I move through the streets, the creeping unease returns.
The cars—they're huge. Sleek, strange designs I've never seen before. Some don't even look like they have a proper engine. What the hell kind of cars are these?
And then—I see it. A massive banner stretched across a building.
"Elect me as your town governor for 2018!"
My feet freeze. My heart pounds. 2018?
I swallow hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. Is this some kind of joke? A play? A messed-up dream?
I rub my eyes and looked again, but the numbers don't change. The banner still reads 2018.
This isn't 1989 anymore.
This is something else. And I don't know how the hell to wake up from it.
It's just a bad dream, everything is gonna be fine, i just have to find Kimberly.
I moved making my way again, The honking doesn't stop. It's sharp, aggressive—like the whole town is on edge, like there's a war happening right here on the streets. This isn't the quiet hum of my town's, the soft murmur of conversations, the distant chirping of crickets. It's too loud, too fast. Everything is wrong.
I kept walking, my footsteps are quick but unsure. The pavement feels familiar, yet the world around me is unrecognizable. Then, my eyes catch a sign—a bakery. At least, that's what it says. I stopped, drawn to it, maybe out of habit, maybe because it's the first thing that isn't completely foreign. The glass is tinted, dark, but reflective.
And for the first time since all this began, i see my reflection.