If you are sensitive to blood, gore, or death related stuff, just dont read this post, just read the next one when it comes out.



I am dreaming about death again.

Ernie is dying from a terminal illness and has only one day left to live.

Shelley and I go over to her home to see her one last time.
In her room, there is like a mini-attic kind of second floor,
with flat floor-mattresses and a single bulb lamp that drowns the room in amber light.

We sit or lie down and talk.

She tells us she is going to die, and we are sad.

Eventually Shelley and I go home, our friend will die tonight.

The next day, both of us walk to school together.

Ernie hasn't told us if she is coming today or not, I say that even if she is still alive that she shouldn't be walking around and should stay at home.

We walk into school- the front of a large english cathedral weathered by the rain, and made of brown stone, with intricately painted glass windows.

On the front there is a circular window.

There is a door underneath it, and a path coming forth.

On both sides of the path there are huge stretches of lawn.

On the law there are kitchen workstations on wheels. Apparently there are cooking lessons.

A chef carrying Roasted pork on a platter passes by, and I grab an ear and eat it.

I feel the crunch.

I turn around to see Damien Hirst smiling at me. He is my culinary teacher.

"This is why I can't be a chef. I love food too much. I'll eat all my cooked food."

He smiles and walks away, waving back at me as he goes, in a manner that suggests he isn't pissed that I stole some food and says in an mix of an Irish and British accent, "Just go to the Louvre or something".

I turn around, and there is a railing between me and the workstation in front of me.

I bend and reach underneath the railing, head, shoulders and all.

I look into a kitchen wastebin and see several dead pigeons, fresh dead pigeons, their feathers still beautiful and unriffled, and their eyes still glistening.

I push the pile of them up to see whats underneath.
Rotting food.

I place them back, and turn around, following Shelley.

We are going to meet our class.

She stops in front of me and looks in front of her.

I stop, look in front and cry.

I can feel the warm tears running down my face.

It is a cool, slightly breezy day in the english countryside, and the sky is a off-white to grey colour. The air is damp, and filled with the smell of dew.

Ernie is standing in front of us.

I know that she has survived one day, but she will still die soon.

I cry because she has come all the way to see us, and I cry because I won't be able to see her soon.

Our class is seated (everyone is in their SAJC uniform) at a long table, like the ones in great halls.

It is made out of crude and rough wood, so are the chairs.

It is outdoors on the grass, beside some trees of smooth bark and warm light green leaves.

We sit down, and smile at one another.

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