The Blue Building | Ian Blackwell

Everything will be alright when I get to the Blue Building.
I’ve never been in this part of the city before. This area is for those in desperate times. That’s why I’m here. 
The Sun faded when I crossed Nile Street into this area yet it still stares down at me. Stares down at all of us.
Trouble hangs above us, ready to crush us all. That might explain why there’s few pedestrians on this street. Or maybe it’s because homeless people sit on the pavement, spread out to make passing none of them impossible. Fights and drug abuse have ulcerated their grey faces. Their stares explore my passing face. They don’t call out to me.
They’re free of pointless distractions. No TV. No celebrities. No social media. But their freedom comes at a price. No food. No job. No bed. No home. Just survival. They’ve learned enough on the streets to know where I’m going.
Everything will start again when I get to the Blue Building.
The street corner. A black and white cat.
“Where are you going?” it asks.
“The Blue Building,” I say.
“Why?”
“I’ve wasted my life. Too many bad decisions. My job is pointless. My friends are fake. I found my girlfriend with another man today. In my own bed,” I say.
“Ah.”
“That’s what happens when you come back early,” I say.
“That’s what happens when you always expect the worst,” it says.
“I want this life to end.”
“Few people go to the Blue Building. But many of those who do don’t come back,” it says. “Good luck. I must go now.”
The cat falls to pieces. The pieces become black and white kittens which scarper off in all directions.
All prophesies will be realized when I get to the Blue Building.
Crossroads. The little man on the traffic lights turns green; I start to cross. My eyes search down the street to my left: no moving cars, shutters are down. No one.
A blow to my hip spins me around. I nearly surrender to my knees.
An elderly woman moves away towards the pavement I just left. My hip screams; the click of her walking stick on the road says nothing happened. Her frail body should’ve went sprawling.
“Hey,” I say.
No response. 
I want to grab her by the arm to get an apology or even an acknowledgement, but I can’t move. Not much revenge can be taken on the elderly.
All books will be balanced when I get to the Blue Building. 
She reaches the pavement. 
Blazing orange rages beyond the old woman, beyond all the homeless: a silent explosion. Its flames grow, engulfing everything. Cars light up. Tyres burn and explode. This tsunami of fire rolls towards me. The homeless don’t see it coming. They’re going to be destroyed.  
The blankets they sit on lift them upwards one at a time, above the moving wall of destruction. It passes under them. They hover there, still unaware. 
The old woman struggles towards it. She even looks up into it and keeps going. She will be devoured.
She floats upwards, still walking; the air supports her stick each time she plants it down. She raises above the arriving flames and keeps going.
My hip has paralysed my right leg. I drag myself backwards. 
The sea of fire burns closer. 
I won’t raise above this phenomena like the others. 
It heats my face.
Nothing I can do. But it doesn’t matter.
It arrives at the crossroads.
It stops.
The traffic lights on that side melt and bend but the flames are contained, feeding on the space they occupy, dammed in by that side of the crossroads. I turn away from the burning rubber attacking my eyes and nostrils. 
Not far now. May as well keep going.
The throb in my hip disappears. I start walking. I glance back now and again: the flames wait.
Everything will be determined when I get to the Blue Building.
I turn left on to Blue Street. 
There it is.
Everyone knows where it is but not many come here. I’ve only read about this place. No photographs exist. So strange for this to be in the middle of a city, middle of anywhere.
Tall, grey walls on either side. No doors, no windows. I breathe the loneliness of this place in; the negativity possesses me. The one I love has betrayed me like so many friends and family before. No-one loves me. I hate my job. I hate waking up in the morning. I hate my life.
This street is a dead end. But at the end it stands, towering over me, towering over everything. No windows on its blue face. But I know it’s watching me. 
I walk towards the steps leading up to its blue door. Part of me wants to move faster; part of me wants to walk away. The rest is dead.
I can’t turn back now. I have to go in. I have no choice.
I stand before the steps. I listen: silence from the Blue Building. 
I climb the first step. Then the next. Then the last. 
I raise my hand. I place it on the door; its power vibrates through me. I pull my hand back.
I press the bell: nothing.
Something shuffles at my feet. I look down to see a white envelope sliding out from under the door. I pick it up. The front says:

Nathan

I open it and pull out a page. I unfold it. It reads:

Tomorrow is a New Day

I press the bell again. And again. Numerous times. I knock. 
No answer. I’ve already had my answer. 
I fold the note up and slide it into my pocket. I turn, descend the stairs and walk away.
If the fire still blocks my way back, I’ll try another street. If that street is blocked, I’ll try another. If that one is also blocked, I’ll keep trying. I’ll get home somehow. Tomorrow I will start again. I will make my life better.

Ian Blackwell lives in Glasgow, Scotland. He enjoys travelling, experiencing new cultures, and different ways of thinking. A stray cat chose him as his human. He inherited a sheep skull called Bernard who has the final say in the most important matters. Find out more on his website, on Twitter, or on Facebook.