Middlesborough

 

I’ve lived in Middlesborough for years. I can’t remember how many.  

Middlesborough is, in every sense of the word, average. Every house is identical, painted a pebble shade of grey. Not white, not black, but somewhere in between. Size wise, our homes are not too big but not too small. Nothing here is breathtaking, nor is it boring. The people are much the same. Everything is just… in the middle.  

I don’t remember moving here and I don’t remember where I lived before. As far as I know, I’ve always been here, and I’ve always been exactly how I am now. We don’t have names in Middlesborough, we just have numbers. The same number as our house. I’m 47. I don’t know my age. It’s not high, but it’s not low.  

Every day here is the same. I wake up, have breakfast, then a shower. I read the newspaper in my living room for a couple of hours – the same newspaper I read the day before, and the day before that – then I mow the lawn. I don’t know why, because the grass never grows, but I do it anyway. Then, when the sun sets, I retreat into my house. I listen to the radio, but it’s only static. I get dressed for bed and I fall asleep. 

For as long as I can remember, I’ve dreamt the same dream every single night. In it, I am sitting on a deckchair outside my house, waving to 48. He waves back. The rest of the dream is a still picture, the two of us stuck in mid wave. But, the other night, I dreamt something different. 

I was in a field with a woman. She had long auburn hair that reflected the sunlight and a warm smile that made me feel safe. She laughed as she ran through the tall grass, beckoning me to follow her. Then, without warning, a deep red liquid oozed from her eyes. Shattered glass rained from the sky, little droplets piercing her skin as they brushed against her. She let out a deafening scream that turned into a screech. It was a sound I’d heard before; but I can’t remember where. Certainly not from Middlesborough. 

I woke in a cold sweat, my heart pounding against my ribcage. I rested a hand on my chest to steady my breathing, and then I did something I’d never done before. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. 

I stared at my reflection for the very first time. The mirror had always been there; I know it had. I saw it every day when I washed my hands or brushed my teeth. But I'd never actually looked in it. I’d never looked at myself.  

I stared, utterly transfixed by the person staring back at me. I had a small cut on my cheek. I was sure it meant something. There was something I needed to remember; I just couldn’t quite put my finger on it.  

I was vaguely aware of the days passing by, yet I couldn’t look away. The cut on my cheek grew bigger and bigger until it covered one half of my face. I must have been staring for weeks, but not once in that time did I feel hungry or tired. But then, I never did, did I? I only ever ate breakfast because I knew I was supposed to, the same applied for sleep. And mowing the lawn. In fact, the same applied for everything. None of these were things I needed to do; they were things I was supposed to do. 

The sound of the doorbell startled me. I tore my eyes away from the mirror and silently made my way downstairs. I didn’t know I had a doorbell. Nobody had ever rung it before. 

Standing outside was a person, only smaller. Like a female, but shorter. I know there’s a name for something like her. 

“Hello.” she said. 

She was a child. That was it. A little girl. No children lived in Middlesborough, yet somehow, I knew what one was. How was that possible?  

“Have we met before?” I asked her. 

She nodded slowly, then pointed at me. 

“You’re remembering.”  

“What am I remembering?”  

“The before.” she said. Her hair swayed softly in the breeze. We didn't have wind in Middlesborough. 

The little girl looked up at the sky. I followed her gaze, craning my neck upwards. 

Ouch. 

A pang in my neck made me wince, and I rubbed the sore spot with the palm of my hand. I’d forgotten what pain had felt like. It had been so long, hadn’t it? 

“What’s your name?” asked the girl. 

“47.” I replied. 

“No. Your name.”  

“Charlie.” I responded. “Charlie Hopkins.” 

Dizziness overpowered me and I fell to the floor, clutching my throbbing head. I heard the same scream from my dream, only it wasn’t a scream at all. It was a screech. The sound of uneasy tires dragging across asphalt.  

I was leaving a party. Ava’s party. It was her 30th Birthday.  

“Charlie, why don’t we just get a taxi? You shouldn’t be driving.” Ava's auburn hair blew in the cool midnight breeze.  

“I’m fine.” I slurred, dizzy from the booze. “I’ve only had a couple.” 

Ava protested but I wouldn’t listen.  

“You coming, or not?”  

We got in the car.  

“Charlie, your seatbelt.” Ava said, pointing.  

“It’s fine.” 

Why was I driving? I shouldn’t be driving. 

Loud music vibrated throughout the car, the smoke from my cigarette danced in the air. Ava laughed as we sped through the night.  

We drove past our old Secondary School – the place we first met. Then we drove past the field where we shared our first kiss. I rounded the corner, my eyelids growing heavy. I missed the stop sign. How could I have missed the stop sign? 

There was a loud screech as the tires of the oncoming car tried desperately to brake. I was thrown headfirst through the windshield, my skull cracking as it collided with the cold, hard ground. My face skidded against the asphalt, shredding the skin from one half of my face. With a broken arm, I reached up to my head and felt the warmth of my brain as it spilled onto the road. I craned my broken neck to the clouds above, thick grey smoke filling my lungs. Shards of glass fell from the sky, raining down on me.  

“Charlie.” said the little girl. I was back in Middlesborough, looking down at the child. 

“You were in the other car.” I whispered. She nodded.  

I looked up at the sky. It was starting to rain. 

“Are you-” 

“No.” she said. “I survived. Everyone did. Everyone but you.” 

“Where am I?” I asked, though I already knew. 

“In the Middle.” 

“Will I be here long?” 

The little girl shrugged and walked away. I wanted to call after her, to tell her I’m sorry, to tell her I was an idiot, and I shouldn’t have been driving. I had so many questions, but the more that came to mind the foggier they seemed. Why was I standing by my front door? Was someone just here? Who had I been talking to? 

I went inside and sat down on the sofa. I was meant to be doing something, wasn’t I? What was it? 

Ah yes, I was reading the paper. The same paper I read yesterday, and the same one I’ll read tomorrow. Because nothing changes here in Middlesborough. The grass doesn’t grow, and things are always the same. Not bad, not good... but somewhere in the middle.