Fever Dreams

I’m running through a field. I look back. The field seems to be the typical green checkerboard pattern of an agricultural valley. Haze. From the direction of the field come several children. I come upon a play ground. They spill into it behind me. Where am I? Shouldn’t matter. They must have seen me run past and followed for the curiosity. It seems like they shouldn’t have followed; almost as if they have sneakily escaped from their kid-enclosure and the close watch of some responsible adult.
I stop short near the overly long metallic slide. There are several pint glasses on the ground. A child picks one up and throws it—awkwardly overhand in an accidental downward motion. It doesn’t travel far and doesn’t shatter as expected, merely splits into several pieces. Someone picks up the largest piece—for what purpose? Is it me, to clean it up before anyone gets cut? Is it her, out of curiosity?
There are several people I recognize from high school. They come closer. Somehow, it seems as if they are responsible for the children. Or should be. I look at the child and say: “This is why no one should have kids until they are at least thirty.” I grin, feeling clever. I look up, look at my audience. Who are these people? Relics from my past, perhaps. I look at the little blond child in front of me. There’s a small trickle of blood on someone’s finger. Is it mine? Is it hers? There’s not so much blood, mustn’t hurt too much. She seems unconcerned. I feel unconcerned. Whose blood? Whose finger? I awake in sweat. There is no blood.