The Desolate High Street

Who can look at anything anymore: a door handle, a handshake, a bag of vegetables without imagining it swarming with the invisible killer? Who can think of kissing a stranger, jumping on to a bus or sending their child to school without feeling real fear? This inescapable terror sends everyone into madness, a silent, mysterious madness, which leaves the streets barren and empty, the shop shelves unoccupied, the high street desolate.

I try to escape the madness and confusion of home by escaping to the park, being careful to not get anywhere near anyone else. It's funny how one small invisible enemy has now made all our friends our foes. I slump on the park bench almost in a trance until a distant bird chirp startles me and brings me back to my senses. I wrap my coat around me as protection, a barrier, a shield. And listen to the vacant town.

A small squeak from the swing set blown ever so slightly by the cold wind, the small continuous tap tap tap of the rain falling to the ground like a drum roll building up to something and the sound of a distant car zooming off into the distance all come together to form a woeful, misery filled drone of depression which blankets the whole of the country. I stand back up, again in a trance I stumble back home not a soul in sight the whole way. As I stumble in the front door climb up to my bedroom and lie on my back, I think to myself. When will this nightmare end?

Seb Dedman – Year 9