You can't remember falling asleep but suddenly you're waking up, gasping. Crisp air fills your nostrils and throat, it drenches your lungs in a relief you didn't realize you were so desperately craving.

'I can breathe,' you think and at the same time realize what a curious thought this is. You hadn't realized you couldn't before.

Your sheets are twisted around your legs like vines so you kick them off, startling when you realize they're not your sheets, they are vines and one is wrapped tight around your ankle, pulling you towards the edge. <********!" You wrench your leg away and the offending vine tears. You make quick work of unwrapping it from your ankle, heart pumping a bit faster now. You toss it aside.

'I'm dreaming,' you think... but it doesn't feel like dreaming. It feels like something else. It feels like something you want nothing to ******** do with.

Dust floats, shimmering in the air around you. You blink and, for the first time since waking, you actually look around at your environment. It's your apartment... but it's not. Two-thirds of the roof is gone, seemingly knocked away by something huge. The sky above you is black and ominous. It is night-time, and it is cold. You can see your breath, hovering in front of you and dissipating into the air around you. You shiver, thankful- for once- that you apparently went to bed fully clothed. You're even still wearing your shoes.

You want to lay back down in bed, wait until you wake up, but a noise from below catches your attention. It sounds like static, scratchy and old, then it turns into music- jazz, but slowed and skipping. It's definitely a record, in dire need of repair.

Avoiding the vines, you climb off the bed. When your feet hit the floorboards they creak and you realize they're older than they should be. They bend beneath you, threatening to break. You feel lighter, though, than you would be if you were truly awake. Nevertheless, you cross the apartment carefully. You don't want to fall through.

As you move forward, an armchair that doesn't quite look right catches your eye. You turn towards it and it seems to... shift?... forward a little bit. It leans towards you, beckoning. You frown at it. You keep it carefully in your peripheral as you move towards the stairwell and descend. It doesn't move again, but you're suddenly filled with a sense disappointment that is not your own. It hollows out your chest. It makes you feel lonelier than before. You grimace and continue moving. As you put more distance in between you and whatever that thing was, the feeling dissolves back into your own more manageable emotions.

It's so cold, you wrap your arms around yourself in an attempt to stay warm. You wish you'd worn a jacket to bed, too, but all you've got is a thin shirt with some band's name on it and a pair of old jeans. Your vans don't do much to ward off the chill, either. You're not wearing socks.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, the music halts abruptly. You tense, part of you wanting to turn around and walk right back up to your apartment. You've never before felt as uncomfortable in your own building as you do now. You peek around the wall that separates the stairwell from the backroom of the shop. No one's there, but the place is a mess.

Everything had been ripped from the shelves and destroyed. Broken bits of VHS and cassette tapes were scattered all across the floor. Even the drum kit that had once sat on the stage had been deconstructed and ruined beyond repair.

As you survey the damage, the record player starts up again. The sound it makes is unrecognizable and high-pitched, filled with notes that didn't make sense. You swallow your breath. Your lungs feel frozen within your chest. Your head aches.

You wake up.