The Shitshow

Date: 11/6/2025

Granny’s practically levitating beside me, her wiry silver hair fizzing with anticipation. She’s been saving up her pension for this — for the boys, she keeps saying — as though she’s some fairy godmother delivering us to paradise. Only, as the pearl gates of Dreamland swing open, the first thing I hear is a child screaming, “I want to go home!” Her mother scoops her up, crooning reassurances that sound more like negotiations. I try a sympathetic smile, but the woman’s eyes freeze when they meet mine. Wide. Glazed. Like she’s seen a ghost she wasn’t expecting to see before lunch. “Hmm,” I mutter. “We’re not off to a good start.” Granny doesn’t hear. She’s already halfway inside, cackling with joy, her handbag bouncing like a pendulum of optimism. “Welcome to Dreamland,” drones the teenager at the gate. His acne has acne. His name badge says Trey (In Training), as though he’s still learning how to be disenchanted. “Tickets?” he asks, and Granny hands them over with the reverence of someone passing communion wafers. In return, he gives us wristbands made of barbed wire. Actual barbed wire. It bites into my skin immediately, drawing a bead of blood. “Ouch!” the boys cry in unison.” “Souvenir of the experience,” Trey says, dead-eyed. “No re-entry without it.” The gates slam behind us with a sound like a prison door locking shut. The place looks… tired. Like the fun has been taxidermied and put on display. The rollercoaster rattles in the distance, half its lights dead. The rubbish bins are vomiting takeaway boxes, sticky drinks pooling beneath them. Two crows brawl over a crust nearby — vicious, feathers flying, one actually pecking the other’s eye out. A mascot trudges past, a sad mouse whose head hangs so low it nearly scrapes the gravel. His costume’s once-white gloves are brown and damp. When he looks up, I see the hollow sockets where his plastic eyes should be. “Cat,” he says simply, and shuffles off. I decide not to tell Granny. The boys want to go swimming. I try to steer them towards the carousel (at least it spins), but they’re already stripping off their shirts. “Where’s the changing room?” I ask the park ranger stationed nearby. He stares at me like I’ve just asked him to define consciousness. “The changing room?” I repeat, slower, like a fool. He shrugs and points toward a shadowy corner behind the snack stand. We change there, huddled like refugees of fun, pretending not to notice each other’s discomfort. Then I look down — and scream. The ground is alive. Cockroaches, huge ones, scuttling over my shoes, my toes, my soul. One pauses, bold as brass, and starts eating the nail polish off my big toe. “Eco-friendly,” I mutter weakly. Alex leaps into my arms. “It’s okay,” I lie “they won’t hurt you.” But I’m not sure I believe it. The pool looms ahead — a rectangle of murky sludge, more soup than water. The smell alone could kill a weaker species. The lifeguard, a man who looks like he’s been pickled in suncream and despair, blows his whistle. “Alright, you lot ready?” “For what?” I ask. He grins. “You’ll see.” He lines us all up along the pool edge. legs as hard as you can. “When I blow again, kick your legs as hard as you can.” Wait. “Are we … the entertainment?” I whisper. Whistle. Fwooot! We kick. The water thrashes, sloshing in dirty waves. The lifeguard claps. “Beautiful! Keep it going!” And then — of course — something brown and buoyant bobs past. Lesley catches my eye. Pretends she hasn’t seen it. But her jaw tightens. “That’s it,” I say, climbing out. “I’m done. Get me the fuck out of here.” The barbed wire cuts deeper as I move. The air smells of chlorine and disappointment. The water rises. Then — like a plug’s been pulled — the whole scene spirals down, folding in on itself until I’m somewhere else entirely. Kylie’s here. Just like that. Her arm linked through mine as if years of silence meant nothing. We’re walking down a cobblestone street under a dull orange sky. The air smells like rain and regret. “Shall we?” she says, gesturing towards a pub glowing like a promise. “One won’t hurt,” I reply, already knowing it will. Inside, it’s chaos. Heat, noise, the stench of bodies and beer. The queue for the bar snakes out the door. “Fuck this,” Kylie says, heading straight for the exit. On the way, I spot Craig from work, sitting around a roaring fire with a group of strangers. Cats lounge across their laps, on tables, under chairs — everywhere. “Kylie, look!” I say. “Cats!” Her eyes flicker. For a moment, I see the old sparkle. “Tempting,” she says, “but… you look like a boy.” “What?” She gestures to me. Baggy skater jeans. Converse. A skateboard clutched under my arm. “I—I must’ve forgotten who I am,” I stammer. “Clearly.” Her eyes harden, a familiar cruelty curling at the edges. “You’d better go home and change.” She walks off, the door closing behind her with the finality of a verdict. The pub fades. The air turns cold. I look down. The barbed wire wristband is still there, biting into my flesh. A small drop of blood runs down my arm, red against the rusted metal. Dreamland never ended. It just changed costumes. And somewhere, faintly, I can still hear the lifeguard’s whistle. Kick harder.