I've been on this street before. I've stood at the intersection of Maple Street and Downing hundreds of times, at least in my childhood. But Maple Street is not how I remember it, not exactly at least. The road is blacktopped, which is nice, and the houses are different in a way I cannot describe. I think it's the tone. It’s the tone of the street that’s changed. There is a weight in the atmosphere, and the silence is present, continuous, until a lonely sound drifts in from the distance and echoes throughout the street.
There’s Lindsay's house. I guess it's been remodeled over the years because now it's the most unique house on the street, but I'm sure it's Lindsay’s. We had dozens of great memories in that house. Hide and seek, water balloon fights, sleepovers - all the clichés that kids partake.
Lindsay is in the window. She's older now, but I know it's her. Her blonde hair has turned gray. Her beauty has weathered over the years; her skin no longer clings to her body but now hangs loose and transparent, revealing brittle bones.
Further down the street the houses appear even more bizarre. Some have tall, black gates around their property. Others are four stories tall. This is not Maple Street. The more I walk the more I feel my footsteps dragging along the pavement. It's getting harder to walk. The houses are still morphing. Some are collapsing into their foundation. Others are inside out; their furniture and layout displayed in a bizarre presentation, seemingly impossible.
The road ends. There are no more houses. All that is left is the white – endless white. I turn back to look down the road and I’m too far away to see the intersection. A sound is coming from the white abyss. It's getting louder. I drag my feet into its depths. Soon I cannot see anything, not even my own body. I hover in the whiteness, floating, until . . .
. . . I awake from the coma.