• I awake with the sun; cold and brutal against my skin. And where the miserable sun doesn’t not rest, a biting, howling wind takes its place; crawling through the wearing fabric of my rags and tasting my skin with brittle, frozen lips. My skin prickles with goose-bumps where ever the chill hits, my who body is tangled in the freezing, prying limbs of a cold, silent goddess. I squirm, arms waving in wild, frenzied arcs. My heart beats sluggishly in my chest as the chill claws deeper; even my new-found panic does not cause my heart to race.

    As my body tires; limbs falling akimbo upon the ground, the cold seems to gain strength. My vision fades in and out as I slowly give into defeat, and I lazily watch my breath curl in the icy air. I darkly imagine that each little cloud escaping my lips is a piece of my dying soul. I imagine being reborn into all the first breaths of children, only to die later and be born again. The thought comforts me as I accept the inevitable. ‘A death makes way for birth’, as my wife (long dead and forever missed) used to say.

    The wind dies down soon after, or perhaps my hearing has gone. I lay there, with the broken window-glass biting into my knees and hands, and listen to perfect silence. It makes me happy, to have this halcyon moment, seconds before death. Even as my blood freezes in the tips of my toes; tears its way up my left arm, I cannot shakes this new-found happiness.

    I hear him first, the man-creature who would take me to the asphodel fields. I raise my hands, weakly, waiting for Death’s embrace. I expect an emptiness, a coldness of sort. Instead there is sudden heat; so much so that I have to scream as the pain jams its talons into my brain. Nerves seem to shatter and break, pain floods through my heart and veins. A warm, fuzziness curls around my left arm and toes, as if the nerves there died out long before.

    The arms that carry me in my daze help to sooth me. There is a rhythm to his footsteps, one that slowly leads me to sanity; clear light and humanity.

    With bleached, sun-weary eyes I look out, for the first time in a long time, onto the world at sun-set. The brutal, blinding sun as dropped low enough that the naked eye can glance out upon the world and see clearly, painlessly. Buildings rest against each other, their naked skeletons carving the skin like dying hands; begging hands. The road we follow is littered with beetle-like shells of cars. As we pass one window, I get a glimpse of two rotten, human shells. Maybe a mother and husband, or maybe two teenage lovers, hiding from prying eyes.

    I see signs and billboards, their advertisements cheap and flashy, with words like ‘beauty can be forever’ and ‘forget old age’; as if we think we can wipe Death from the face of the earth. It makes me sick, so I turn my head, looking into the finely made clothing my savior wore.

    As we travel, me carried in the ever-sturdy arms of the nameless man, I become aware of fact that my left arm has not lost that warm, fuzziness. And what frustrates me more is that I cannot tell if I am flexing my fingers or not. I can’t seem to raise the arm either, and shortly after realizing this I start to scream. Terror manifests and bursts from my lips, scaring scavenging crows into the air. The nameless man sets me down and clamps a hand over my mouth. I sob and cry, shaking violently and attempting to again flex my left fingers. When nothing happens, I know something is wrong. I use my good arm and slap away the hand holds me down and sit up.

    I open my mouth to scream at the sight of my arm, and he again covers my mouth, but lets me sit up this time. My whole limb blue and blotching with spots of rotting flesh. All but one of my fingers are a sickly black, and I nervously, curiously, reach out and touch one. It squishes in like a bad tomato and I gag. His hand yanks away, and holds back my dirty hair as I fall forward, rocking and shaking. But nothing comes and I lean back again, breathing heavily. My whole arm is gone, useless. I feel sick and confused and lost.
    What am I with only one arm? A invalid, an amputee. Worthless.

    “You better now?” he asks, the first words he has ever said to me, as I calm down. I shiver at the foreign sound of words, and then sort them until they make sense. Then I look at him, but am unable to see his face because of the shadows of night. But I pretend he has a kind face, a face that a father would be proud of and a mother would love. Lips part into an awkward smile, and I nod. “Yes,” I try the words carefully, and am pleased to know I remember words. After the first, I quickly speed on. I ask all kinds of questions, and he calmly answers all he can. I think he is glad that I can speak, because I can see the sun rising for morning now, and he has never once let our conversation fade out.

    “The suns coming up,” I state with regret, wishing we could talk some more. But for now we move on our way, me still curled in his arms. As the sun finally breaks the foggy clouds, we find a small bakery, and move to the kitchen, where the sun is minimal. He sets me down in a pile of blankets that smell of an old dog, cinnamon and dust. I lay down slowly, positioning my decaying arm comfortably, and inhale. Memories that are just a little to fuzzy to be remembered clearly fog my brain, and I close my eyes and drift off to the sound of the nameless man (Why didn’t I ask him his name?) lighting the stone and wood ovens one by one by one.

    I curl, like a fat lazy cat, into the warm that curls around me, and dig my fingers into soft, curling hair. It slips easily between my fingers, and I am more interested as to where he got a decent bath and less so as to why he is holding me tightly to his chest. I continue to play with his hair, and barely notice him when he awakes. His lips touch just under my jaw, and my hands yank, jerk and stop with enough intensity to make him pull away and hiss in the pain shooting from his scalp. We stay like that for a few moments, and I slowly ease my hold on his hair, and he carefully moves his lips back to my jaw. I don’t stop him this time.

    On the old, dusty blankets that had once heard laughter and love, we lay, his leg eased between mine; nudging ever so slightly against my groin, kissing in the heat of the kitchen. His face, when I see it then, was gentle and soft. His chin is much more square then mine, and he has a five o’clock shadow that tickled my sensitive skin. His eyes are dark and have a boyish charm to them, and when I kiss his nose, I can feel a break. I kiss his eyebrows and his forehead and then he call me back to his lips, muttering all different names because he doesn’t know mine. I imagine them as his old lovers, the people he misses the most. I imagine he is pouring all his love for them into me, making me whole where I was not.

    The old blankets stick to me awkwardly as we lay there, and I roll a little, shifting my dead arm and gagging at the smell. The heat and sweat have caused it to become much more foul. My nameless man sits up and combs back my hair as I groan, then kisses my ear and stands up. When he disappears out of the room, panic rises into my throat, and I shake. I hate being alone and he has never left my side before. I sit and wait, blood and sweat and semen drying to my skin and making me itch. He still does not come back. My start to hyperventilate and tears p***k my eyes. Still he doesn’t appear. I tug at my hair and am about to scream when he reappears. He is shaking and his hair as frozen stiff in spikes. He lifts his arms, indicating the large metal bucket of warm he is holding. He then stumbles over to the top-stove and turns the knob. The starter clicks and clicks until it bursts to life with wicked flames. He lets the water sit and goes about the kitchen collecting clean clothes and shaking them out.

    I watch him with fascination, loving the way he expresses himself so clearly with his face. His hair is brownish, and reminds me of chocolate. I can see him having a bitter-sweet life before the end came. When the water has boiled, he drops in some rags, and waits again; coming to sit beside me. He kisses my neck and ear, then eases me back onto the bed and kisses my lips, then collarbone. I hiss as he kisses my navel, and groan when he kisses the insides of my thighs. I dig my good hand into his hair, tugging and demanding. He laughs then, and I will remember it forever. It curls around the room, softening all the edges of reality. I come silently, still cherishing that sound.

    He wraps the rotting lump of my arm and then cleanse us both up before showing me some dusty, but much more well-kept clothing he found in the loft above the bakery. He gives me a pair of jeans two sizes too big and a baggy tee. Then he hands me a coat that smells distinctly of cigarette smoke and car oil. There is a name tag that says ‘Henry’ in bight red letters. I trace the embroidery with my fingers and then smile at him. He has gained some new apparel as well, now dressed in a green cotton shirt and black denim. I see he also has a pack on his back, stuffed(most likely) with clothing and canned foods. He then hands me a pair of rough leather boots, and makes a comment about ‘hoping they are the correct size’. I squeeze my feet into them, and am happy to feel some toe room is available.

    We leave as the sun sets again, and he tells me we have one last night of travel before we get to ‘Home’. Nervousness buried deep down now rises up and I swallow my fear. I am not sure what it is I am afraid of but still I quake with terror. He doesn’t seem to notice, and walks on, boots echoing around this ghost town.


    ‘Home’ is an old super mart with boarded up windows and graffiti tags . There are two men outside with machine guns, and they shift their guns as we come up. Nameless motions for me to wait, so I stop as he jogs forward to talk to the men. They wave hands and their faces show that they are arguing, but I can only hear incoherent muttering. Finally the taller guard breaks in and points at me, and my nameless savior comes jogging back. “Come on, let’s get inside,” he says in breathy tones, and I quickly follow him inside. As we pass, I notice the man he had argued with was actually a scarred up woman, who glared at me with a glass eye as we ran in.

    Its like a noisy hive, and I nearly break down as soon as we come in. So loud. But my nameless man holds me close as I cover my ears. We move through the crowds, and I notice looks of understand on peoples faces as we passe. Sometimes whole groups go silent as I pass, easing my aching ears. When things go quiet, I can hear the whispers clearly. “Look’s like Riley has another one,” they hiss and I know they are talking about my nameless man.

    We run down metal and wood and dirt halls, going deeper into the ground, and finally come to a room. He pushes the door open to reveal a small cement floored area with wooden walls. There is a bed and a nightstand, and a little dresser with clothing poking out. I can smell fresh, moist earth around us and it makes my animalistic self hungry. I turn and lean against Riley, pawing at his clothing as he tries to shut the door. He barely gets the lock in place before I have him stripped. We ease into the bed, and I can smell past lovers and blood in the sheets.

    The next day we go to a surgeon who works in a pale, plastic room on top-level, and he removes my rotting arm. I rest for three days straight, then send the forth night making up for the three I slept. The bed smells like sweat and tears afterwards. Riley says he will never leave.

    Months pass and then Riley leaves.

    I wait for him in his room.

    He doesn’t come back.

    People start to worry, and I feel the need to travel crawl into my bones. One day I just stand up, taking his gun he left behind, and head out. The guards nod at me as I pass, their eyes telling me that they understand, and I travel out into the city. The pale, hellish light bites me and the wind claws at me. The gun rattles and so do my teeth. I travel out into the sun, trying to feed this need.

    I find his body, rotting in the shade. Rats crawl about him, and crows argue above. I let off a shot into the fading night, and the hungry scurry away. I stare at him for a while, feelings welling up in my chest. I c**k the gun as anger rises; aiming at his swollen, head, his sunken eyes. The trigger clicks, but there is no bullets. I curse and throw the gun down. A bullet rips from the barrel, breaking my crying with a thunder-crack.

    I stand still, listening to the echoes die out, then place the gun carefully into his bloated arms, and then turn and walk away.

    The sun comes up, lighting the fallen city, and I walk on until my skin turns blue.