In the dream, we were in a school. It was ours, but it wasn’t. The CMS building is linear, but this one grew in every direction at once. It had the look of an international hospital—vast, white, with flickering lights sunken into the ceiling. Like the lights in the exam hall. Exactly like those.
It was night, though there were no windows. We passed classrooms that were modern and new, unlike the worn rooms where we spend our days. The corridors narrowed as we walked. They narrowed until our arms grazed the cold walls on both sides. We were the only ones in the halls.
The silence was a physical weight. Sometimes a few students would pass us, laughing as if it were a regular Tuesday. We reached the center of the building where the hallways met. They stretched out from the middle in every direction, long and thin like the legs of a spider.
The lobby was huge. It had the same grey floor as the ICSE hall. In the middle of the floor, a hospital stretcher stood alone. A regular hockey stick lay on the bedsheet. A metal blade had been fixed into the wood, the sharp edge curving out.
The blade was wet with blood.
We moved past it and kept walking. We went down another corridor and into a classroom. The lights here were low, humming with a failing voltage. We stood in the dimness and watched the shadows. We didn’t look away.
Then the voltage surged. The lights turned a blinding, surgical white. We retreated to the main hall, where the air was normal again. The hockey stick was gone. The stretcher remained, but there were dark marks on the sheets that hadn’t been there before.
A boy was walking toward the hall. He had a casual stride. He passed us, and as he reached your side, his hand moved. A knife flashed from his pocket, swinging toward your neck. I pulled you back. The blade cut through the air where your throat had been a second before.
The boy vanished.
The hall was still. You pointed to the coordinator’s chair. A student sat there, scrolling through a phone. A floorboard creaked behind us. When we looked back, the student was on the stretcher.
The bladed hockey stick was driven through his chest. He was crying, but the liquid coming from his eyes was thick and red.
We turned and walked down the next corridor. We passed the staffroom. Inside, our teacher was scolding a student for missing homework.
The world skipped. Like a film frame snagging, we were passing the door again.
The student was gone. Our teacher was in the chair. The hockey stick was thrust through his ribs. He looked at us and smiled kindly. He didn’t move. We went back to the center of the building.
The hall was empty. No chair, no stretcher, no student. The hockey stick lay in the middle of the grey floor. It was clean. There was no blood on the wood.
The doors to the stairs opened. A line of juniors walked out. They were noisy and cheerful, carrying footballs and tennis balls. They were coming back from the games field in the middle of the night. They had no teacher. They followed a boy who led the line.
They walked through us as if we were air.
The lights began to glow. The brightness climbed until our eyes stung and the world turned into a flat, white void. We waited. When the light died down, the children were gone.
Only the boy leading the line was still there. He was standing perfectly still.
He had no head. The hockey stick was growing out of his neck, the blade protruding from the raw center of his shoulders. He remained standing.
We held hands. We went to the stairs and started running. I tried to say something to you, but there was no sound. I stepped on the stone, but there was no noise of a footfall. The dream was mute.
I was running. I couldn’t feel your hand in mine anymore. I looked to my side. The space beside me was empty.
I reached the bottom, but there was no reception area. I was standing in the middle of the school ground. I looked for you. I opened my mouth and let out a long, loud shout.
I couldn’t hear that either.