Chris woke up. He'd had a nightmare he couldn't quite remember, he knew it had been recurring over the past few nights, but memories of it eluded him. Feeling feverish, his whole body trembling slightly, Chris glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table, 3AM. He got up and splashed water on his face from the sink in the bathroom.

"Fuckā€¦" He mumbled, the cold water made it feel as though his head was about to explode. Chris turned the light in the bathroom on and as it flickered, he looked into his bloodshot eyes.

"That's the kind of shit that gives me these nightmares."

He'd been feeling even more passive than usual recently, dark thoughts taking over his mind, telling him not to care. Chris staggered out of the bathroom, leaving the light on.

He walked across the hall and took a sharp knife from the small kitchen, then, in front of the mirror, held the knife to his own throat. Chris stared at his reflection, visualising it moving the knife across and spraying blood over the mirror. Part of him wondered if he was worth the effort of suicide, that maybe death might be too much of a reward for him. An escape from the world was more than he felt he deserved. He was a nobody and had nobody that would miss him; even Eliza didn't care about him anymore.

Groaning he shuffled away to put the knife back. He just couldn't be bothered. He fell back onto his bed. More feverish images appeared in his mind: A woman in a gas mask with a gun to her head, pulling the trigger but nothing was happening. The metallic click of the empty chamber was getting louder and more frantic each time. The woman shook her head slowly and screamed. He then saw a group of faceless young children stood around a fire and singing "London's burning", as strange, inhuman figures staggered toward them.

That was all Chris would remember the next morning.