Carnage and Glitter

So I wrote a story at 2am, and one person liked it, so I'm going to post it here:



Once upon a time, the world ended. It was not big, or showy; it was not a grand procession of colours and light and magic, moving in some pre-determined order to meet the end. There was no symmetry, no neatness, no slow stirring music to serve as a soundscape to rolling credits. The world ended, and there was nothing in the galaxy, in the universe, to show we’d ever been there at all. It was just carnage and glitter.

I watched my daughter sleep, the light from the moon reflecting off the metal posts of her bed. She insisted on keeping the curtains open, in case something happened outside and she missed it. In the summer, she looked at the stars from behind glass. In the winter, she sat on her sill and crossed her fingers and wished seven times for snow. She was the most curious, philosophical, naïve sixteen-year-old in the world.
I moved to close the curtains, and one of her eyes opened.
“No, Mum,” she murmured, her voice a hazy blur. She could still be dreaming. “No…”
“It’ll be warmer in here if I close them, honey,” I said softly. “I’ll wake you so that you don’t miss anything.”
She regarded me, her cynicism and lust for excitement balanced with that warm dozy feeling of sweet dreams.
“Promise?” she said, her voice beginning to slide.
“Promise,” I said, as she closed her eyes and turned heavy and limp, asleep. I closed her curtains.

Ring a ring a roses, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
“Mum, why were the roses in rings?”
“They were like daisy chains.”
“…”
“…”
“Mum, what’s a posy?”
“A little bunch of flowers.”
“Mum, why were there ashes?”
“Because everyone was a heavy smoker.”
“…”
“…”
“Mum, what’s the difference between fairy tales and real life?”
“Fairy tales are things adults made up to make their kids behave, and warn them about what can happen in real life.”
“Mum, what’s the difference between being awake and dreaming?”
“Dreams are things which never really happen.”
“But – then, Mum – how can dreams come true?”

The Chav looked at the Goth with an expression of supreme superiority.
“I’m better than you,” he stated in a nasal tone.
The Goth smiled.
“Is that so?” she asked, light and cheerful. “Can you tell stories?”
“No, but – ”
“Can you sing?”
“No, but – ”
“Do you think of death as the end of meaning or as a means to an end?”
“I don’t – ”
The Goth smiled at the Chav, regarded coolly his branded tracksuit trousers and hoodie, his oversized trainers and fake gold chains. Her rings sparkled. Her teeth seemed to glow against the black of her lipstick.
“Then why, uneducated sir, do you think you’re better than me?”
He pulled out a knife.
“Oh, please. Stop perpetuating your negative stereotype.”
And that was how it began: the beginning of a world where Chavs and Goths became separate races, and their children avoided eye contact on the street, and wars were fought not on battlefields but in boardrooms; and if a Chav ever won an intellectual battle with a Goth, then people in black took him or her away, and nothing was ever said of it.

“Mum, where are we going?”
“To the doctor.”
“Why? You’re not ill.”
“…”
“I’m not ill!”
“It’s a special kind of doctor, love. It’s a different kind.”
“NO!”
“What is it?”
“NO! Mum, I know what it is!”
“What?”
“You’re taking me away!”
“Honey, stop being ridiculous.”
“You’ll take me to a psychiatrist. And he’ll tell me – he’ll say I’m crazy, because that’s what they always say.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“If you don’t think I’m crazy, why are you taking me to the psychiatrist?”
“…”
“…”
“It’s to help you.”
“They can’t help me if they lock me up.”
“They won’t lock you up.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Good. Don’t lie.”

I watched my daughter talk, and I couldn’t believe what she said. She spoke calmly, relaying everything to the doctor who sat there and nodded and made notes; he asked questions, she was flummoxed, and she couldn’t understand why he didn’t understand. Then she started questioning him, and she wouldn’t stop. Later, he took me aside and looked at me sternly.
“Your daughter seems to be unable to tell the difference between reality and dreams. Fairy tales. Nursery rhymes.”
I blinked. Were there tears, waiting to fall? I prayed not. I didn’t want to cry in front of this man, who had cross-examined my daughter like he was a lawyer and she was a hostile witness in court; this man who had made her cry so the invisible jury would talk.
“So,” I said, hating myself for it, “what can we do?”

I woke up. I opened my curtains. I looked at the frost on the ground. I looked at the shattered glass at the top of the window and decided to ignore it. I sat on the windowsill and counted the stars. I pressed my nose flat against the glass and breathed until all I could see was steam. I ignored the constellations with the stupid names and made up my own. There were hundreds of patterns in the sky. It’s just that nobody ever sees them, because they only look at what other people have seen. Nobody opens their eyes.
“Honey,” Mum said, “it’s late. You should be asleep.”
I looked at her.
“Mummy?”
“What is it, baby?” she asked, sitting down beside me. She pulled me into her lap and looked out with me. She hummed a nursery rhyme under her breath, watching me. She tapped her fingers on the metal bed frame. She waited for an answer. When she gave up, she opened her mouth, and I answered her then.
“Mummy, don’t let me grow up.”

It’s happened, you know. The end of the world. It happened a long time ago, but far away. And because the world is so big, it’s taking a long time for us to see it. But the order is breaking down, everywhere you look. Even the stupid are asking questions, and there aren’t enough men in black in the cosmos to stop them. The light is seeping in through the cracks and everything obvious sparkles; everything obscured casts eerie shadows.
This is how the universe ends. Everyone goes to sleep, so they don't see it anymore. We all live unhappily ever after in carnage and glitter.