by Olivia White
The city lies dormant.
I gaze out of my window, across the streets lit with the pale, sickly glow of streetlights.
It is late at night, and I lie in my bed, with the window open. The curtains are pulled back on their hooks.
Something lurks out in the darkness, out across the city.
I see the old retirement home near my street, with no lights on. I fancy that I see the vague outline of someone sitting in a window.
But I might be wrong.
The city slumbers beneath a thousand stars. The moon is beginning its first day of a three day cycle. It is wide, glowing. Like an eye.
We stare at each other for a moment, the moon and I. We hold each other in our respective gazes, and then we both look away.
Tonight, I cannot sleep.
I wait in my bed, wrapped up in my quilt of comfort, combined with my long nightgown to keep out the chill night air.
A cold breeze drifts in from the window, yet I cannot close it. It is a portal into the night, an open mouth screaming silently out across the darkness.
If I close it I will suffocate. And the humming begins again.
It started last night, as I began to drift off to sleep.
A dull, throbbing sound. A mindless drone, pulsing somewhere out across the city. It is almost a siren, almost an alarm, but not quite. It sounds like some giant, and hungry machine, stomach rumbling in hunger. The sound is alien to me, and I contemplate for a second that it may be a huge, chrome flying saucer, stopping off on Earth after a long intergalactic trip.
I shiver as I listen to the noise. One time, I will follow it to the source. One night I shall track it down, and face the thing which disturbs my silent city.
At this hour, everything should be silent. There are no cars driving around, polluting. There are no late night club goers laughing and screaming drunkenly in the streets. Everything should be silent.
And still the noise continues, creeping inside my brain, like a virus. Even though the noise is muffled, to me it sounds like a violent jackhammer, pummeling away at my frontal lobes, smashing my cerebral cortex.
I want to sew my ears up, I want to cut my eyes out to prevent the noise from entering my head. I huddle up under the quilt, and try to sleep.
It has been four days now. Every night the noise returns. I have no idea what it is, yet. No idea what it is, yet. The fatigue is getting to me
It stops me from sleeping. I feel dizzy and sick. My eyes burn when I look at the light. My mother says "Lydia, you should try to get some sleep" and I tell her about the noise. She does not hear it.
It is making me go insane, I think. It's almost like a warning, a fanfare of the most loathsome kind. An air raid siren to announce the end of MY world. Or maybe it is beautiful, the most beautiful music I have ever heard du du du du du du it repeats itself, monotone, invasive. I feel like I am being beaten each night, as the noise invades my every waking thought, like a permanent ringing in my ears. Is this some form of punishment for sins yet committed? I am just eighteen, what could I possibly have done to suffer so?
Tomorrow I shall find the source of this noise and see go to see what it is, and maybe put an end to it altogether.
It is now tomorrow. Yesterday was but a waking dream, with no rapid movements. Tiredness is too much.
I step outside of my house, gently closing the door behind me in fear of waking my parents from their deep sleep.
My bare feet pad softly along the path, onto the street. My flimsy, knee length nightgown does little to keep out the cold night air. I walk out of my street, the noise forever in my head. I follow it as it gets slightly louder.
I walk past the moonlit station, devoid of passengers waiting for their trains. Never shall I wait for one of the metal behemoths, on a course for some unknown destination.
On now, to the road, streetlights vomiting their cancerous fluorescence onto the tarmac. No vehicles traverse these expanses of road, no pedestrians stroll along the pavement.
I pass shop windows, and do not even glance into the dark interiors. I have a sickness in my stomach as the noise grows louder, tearing into my skull, pushing against the backs of my eyeballs.
Flashes of light appear in the darkness, and I know they are merely in my mind, caused by the eternal noise.
The world flashes by me as I begin to run down the moonlit street, each beat of my heart, each heavy footfall echoing in time with the noise pulsing in my head. A faint, sickly green glow taints my vision and I almost pass out. Each breath scrapes my lungs yet I continue. I feel I am near my destination.
Soon, I slow to a walk. I find that I have run all the way into the countryside. To my right is a river, to my left a small copse of trees. I can feel the grass under my feet. Without the glow of light bulbs, the stars are so much brighter, the sky almost looks purple. I hear the running water, mingling with the noise. It is almost musical. The noise is louder here, uninhibited by the cloying scent of electricity. I can feel it run through me, stroking my flesh.
My flimsy nightgown suddenly feels incredibly heavy, and with great effort I pull it up over my head. The garment floats to the ground, carried upon the golden air, light as a feather. A miracle.
I stand naked and alone, covered with sound. The chill air does nothing to hinder my progress as I advance towards the source, getting ever closer, nearer. I'm starting to scare myself. I need the noise.
It is in my head now, a rushing crescendo of sound, almost reaching climax. The noise thrusts itself inside me, a miracle of sound and violence, like a glorious dagger piercing my virgin ears. And it leads me, takes me by the hand, into the darkest forest, between the avenue of trees, into the unknown. It takes me, leads me past civilization, into the dense thicket of trees.
In the meadow I see it.
Surrounded by a circle of mourning trees lies my dying savior He is huge, lying on his side. I can hear his ragged breath catching in his throat. Each lungful of air is painful to him, as if the very oxygen he requires is tainted with razors. His body is mechanical, made up of arcane machinery and physically impossible joints, welded together in alloys of the flesh. His arms are huge steel pipes, flexing as he dies. His legs are coils of thick, sharp wire, now lying impotent and useless under his giant metal torso. And is from within this torso that the noise emanates. Encased in a ribcage of iron, my savior's heart drums out its pained, terrified beats. The noise in my head is his heartbeat. It is the beating of his beautiful heart.
Tears well up in my eyes as my sweet prince takes his final breath. I hear the death rattle in his throat, and his heart beats no more. My God is dead.
I just want something more, but it is not for me. Not now, not ever.
Droning, pumping. Pushing. Thump. Pulsating. Head.
Dull, throb.
Machines.
This was the first time.
XVIII - Bright Lights & Glass Houses
