go go go

I had always imagined my life to be more tragic than it was. Even in my happiest memories, I feel the expectation of disaster, like a snake curled to my chest.

It was one week before the university finals, an anonymous Instagram account was created called theadministrationkills. Their bio said ‘the university can’t control us’ and they only posted three photos. All three of traffic lights. All three green. They tagged everyone in our English class in the photos as well some random people from other arts classes. Under one of the photos was written ‘3nd and 3st, you’ll know the one’; under another was ‘watch for the green lights; green lights mean go’; under the last was ‘go go go’. ‘the

While we didn’t know who it was, we heard the whispers between classes. The question

That morning, July 11th at 5am, I awoke to the rising green light of day. Not the sun, but every traffic light in the city had turned green at precisely the same time. Some kind of malfunction.

My phone buzzed. Theadministrationkills sent me a message: have you looked outside?

Who are you?

8am. The whole class is invited.

I brushed my teeth and got dressed and left my apartment. The street to university was a haze of green. The lights were stuck on green in both directions. On every block. By 7am, military were now on every major intersection directing traffic. Military – not police. Did they see this as some kind of threat? An elderly couple on their balcony complained of where their tax money was going if they couldn’t get the yellow and red lights working. That back in their day there were no lights and people still got to work without all the dreadful honking.

In the smog, it was impossible to tell if it was rainy or sunny, if the old man walking down the path was carrying an umbrella or a shotgun. Rain didn’t smell the same as it once did – of fragrant sweet oak and grass. Nor did the snow taste like mountain peppermint. If you stuck out your tongue in hopes of nostalgia, all you would taste is acid. Sometimes metal. And it would leave you with a ringing in your ears and a paranoid headache wondering, ‘is this what cancer tastes like?’

I went to class. There were only two other students and the professor. We waited. 8am. The teacher checked outside, but the halls were empty.

8:05am. The professor asked us where everyone was. We said we didn’t know.

I wrote a note on the side of my paper to the girl next to me. ‘Do you think they all went?’

She nodded.

I wrote again. ‘Do you think it’s a trap?’

She didn’t know. She widened her eyes and looked down at her notes.

8:10am. The professor gave up waiting and started class.

I put up my hand. “May I please use the washroom.”

I took my bag and coat and left.

The lights were still green. A tank had stationed itself across from the Parliament building.

3nd and 3rd street was close to the university. Only a few blocks off. Surrounded by office buildings was an old, abandoned movie theatre. It had been shut down due to repeated failures to take care of a rat infestation in the walls. Or at least that was the gossip. A couple times the building got broken into and graffitied. At a certain point I think the owners gave up. Whenever I walked past it, I always felt it belonged in one of those end-of-the-world movies. One of the ones where everyone in the city dies or disappears and slowly the city becomes wild again: animals return and start walking through buildings and plants start pushing their way through the cracks and grow into great forests on the streets. Except, instead of plants and animals, the old cinema had become a place overgrown with the dark side of humanity, addictions, and self-destruction. While I don’t believe in ghosts – broken bottles, ripped chairs and graffiti – all held a memory of darkness and anger.

There were people inside – lots more than just our class. Most of the seats were filled. One spotlight lit the stage. There was a man with a microphone.