They shine down upon him in all their cold beauty, sharp, indifferent
points of light. His gaze, though, is just as sharp, and equally
indifferent; he simply watches, listening to his own heartbeat and
the sound of the wind as it sweeps through the empty streets and
buildings below. And when at length he tires, his eyes fall shut, and
he sleeps. He doesn't know that he weeps in his dreams, nor does he
hear the keening sounds he makes. Only the night stands witness to
the lonesome refrain sung as his voice calls the same name again and
again, the sound twining with the moaning of the wind.
In the morning, he makes his way back down into the streets. It takes
him a long time to navigate the stairs; there are many floors to
descend, and the stairwell is utterly dark. But he has his flashlight
with him, and it gives him enough light by which to see the next
step, and the next. Somehow, he thinks that that's how he's always
lived his life.
He breathes a sigh of relief when he finally emerges onto the street.
The light is a welcome thing, but more than that, there's air. It's
not the darkness that bothers him so much, but the enclosed spaces.
It's one of the reasons he's taken to sleeping on rooftops.
He doesn't know his name, or why he only has one arm. He doesn't
remember what happened to all the other people; he's been roaming the
country for a long time now, and he's never encountered anyone else.
The cities are empty, and so, most likely, is the whole planet.
Wherever everyone has gone, not even their echoes were left behind.
He's not sure how long ago the Vanishing took place; he's never
counted the days. For him there are simply light hours and dark
hours, warm seasons followed by cold ones.
Sometimes he wonders why he's the exception, and whether he was the
lucky one.
Sometimes, he wonders why he still bothers to keep himself alive.
His stomach rumbles, pulling him away from his brief introspection.
His backpack is empty of food, and so he goes foraging. Lately it's
been harder to find food that hasn't gone bad yet, and he knows that
soon he's going to have to start venturing outside the cities more
often, for gathering and hunting. There are many animals beyond these
derelict concrete towers, and he's caught a few small ones on
occasion. Rabbits, squirrels, wild cats and dogs. But although he
knows how to shoot and his aim is precise, the weight of a firearm is
uncomfortable in his hand, and he dislikes using it.
He catches glimpses of his own reflection on windows as he walks, but
he doesn't pause to look. His features are almost that of a stranger,
two eyes, nose, mouth, the dark hair falling in long tangled strands
over his shoulders, the lines in his face revealing nothing to him.
But as he looks at the shops and houses and buildings, an uneasy
feeling settles inside him. His memories don't reach back very far,
and so nothing has ever looked familiar to him. Yet some of the
places he passes now seem almost known to him.
He comes upon a Chinese restaurant, and decides to try his luck
there; the beautifully painted dragons on its facade appeal to him.
Once inside, he heads for the kitchen. A mass of black skitters away
when he shines his flashlight into the darkened room, breaking into
multiple smaller shapes and slithering into every crack or hidden
recess available. A shudder runs through him at the sight, the
primitive part of his brain recoiling in fear. He knows they're only
cockroaches, yet in the dark their swarming, amorphous dance is like
a vision out of nightmares, repulsive and unspeakable.
He finds a cache of canned goods in the kitchen's pantry, and he
fills his backpack with them. There's a sealed box on one of the
lower shelves, and he opens it; inside there are fortune cookies,
each one carefully wrapped in red cellophane. He takes one with him
before going back outside.
He sits on one of the weathered chairs in front of the restaurant,
placing the cookie on the table beside his backpack. While he eats,
he keeps looking at it, a strange curiosity gradually forming inside
him, until finally he gives in. Unwrapping the cookie, he sees that
it has hardened with age. He puts the cookie on the sidewalk by his
foot and steps hard on it, the crunching noise it makes as it breaks
open loud in the silent street.
He bends and pulls the small sliver of paper out of the shattered
cookie. His fortune, supposedly.
Long absent friends are coming back into your life, it reads.
He smirks. But the words stay sharp in his mind, tugging at him.
He rests for a while by the restaurant, where there's shade, a
pleasant breeze ruffling his hair and upending the rubble that
litters the street; old newspapers, dried leaves, the discarded
detritus of a bygone world. His thoughts wander as he absently
watches the debris spin and drift, with no purpose or direction.
Weariness grips him all of a sudden, a well-known sense of melancholy
that descends upon him from time to time. Loneliness.
He asks himself what his purpose is, his reason, if he ever had one.
He closes his eyes, looking within, seeking direction. He prays for
his own instincts to hear him, to guide him, to help him look for
something left in this world. Something meant for him, and him alone.
Someone.
But there's no one, nothing. The world is empty, his mind is empty.
And his heart... his heart is devoted to a ghost. The last ghost on
the planet, nameless, like himself.
A man.
He sees his face every night in his dreams. Touches him, kisses him.
Loves him.
With a sigh, he opens his eyes and gets to his feet. He shrugs into
his backpack and starts walking again.
As he proceeds, he lets his legs take over, allowing them to take him
where they wish to go. After a while he feels unusually detached from
himself, entranced. He doesn't dwell on it; he just walks.
Abruptly, he stops and looks up at the building in front of him. The
sense of familiarity that has been plaguing him all day grows; he can
almost remember. And he knows, as surely as he's ever known anything,
that he's been led here. Maybe by himself. Maybe by some other,
unseen force.
He doesn't care which.
He goes in. There are stairs, and he climbs them until something
urges him to stop. He emerges onto a hallway, and he crosses it, the
same urge bringing him to face a particular door. The beam of his
flashlight reveals the number: 42.
The answer to all of his questions, perhaps.
His heart pounding, he tries the doorknob; not locked. He opens the
door, lowering his backpack and flashlight to the floor as he steps
inside. He blinks in the sudden glare, confused for a moment by the
abundance of light, until he sees that all the blinds in the living
room are open to admit the sunlight. There's a man sitting on the
couch, his features indistinct in the wash of brightness pouring in,
and the sight is so unexpected that at first it seems as if he's only
one more object in the room, dusty and inanimate.
The man turns to him and stands up, revealing to him the face that
has haunted him for as long as he can remember, and possibly longer.
His ghost, made gloriously flesh and blood in a single instant.
"Alex," the man says, and the voice cuts through him like a fiery
blade. It's the sound of longing, of desire, of destiny sought and
found. It makes him light headed and weak in the knees.
"I've been waiting for you," the man goes on, reaching out his hand
to him. "I've missed you."
Siren's call, irresistible. Everything in him responding to it. He
takes a step closer, and another, and another. He clasps the man's
hand with his own, and the man wraps his other arm around him,
tightly, holding him close. Their lips meet, and he moans into the
man's mouth as he strokes his tongue with his own. Finally, oh,
finally.
It's the feeling of home.
When the oil slides down his throat, he doesn't even have time to
scream.
Hey little sister what have you done
It's a nice day to start again
Hey little sister what have you done
It's a nice day to start again (come on)
(Pick it up)
Take me back home
It's a nice day for a white wedding
Faithfulness
by Marcia Elena
Lying on his back on the rooftop of the highest edifice in the city,
he silently watches the stars.
"White Wedding" (Billy Idol)
Hey little sister who's the only one
Hey little sister who's your superman
Hey little sister who's the one you want
Hey little sister shot gun!
It's a nice day for a white wedding
It's a nice day to start again.
Hey little sister who's the only one
I've been away for so long (so long)
I've been away for so long (so long)
I let you go for so long
It's a nice day for a white wedding
It's a nice day to start again.
There is nothin' fair in this world
There is nothin' safe in this world
And there's nothin' sure in this world
And there's nothin' pure in this world
Look for something left in this world
Start again
Come on
It's a nice day to start again.
It's a nice day for a white wedding
It's a nice day to start again
