In starlit nights I saw you
So cruelly you kissed me
Your lips a magic world
Your sky all hung with jewels
The killing moon
Will come too soon
Echo and the Bunnymen, 1985
The Nile's Edge - Introduction
There was truth in the saying that the fithiest cities offered the most magnificent sunsets.
Hell had a heavenly view for every soul it possessed. Every last breath of air, festered and blackened with grit and putrid breezes of smog and rancid meat, that filled the environment like a thick grey cloud made the sun glow a bright, brilliant gold. Every street and building dusted in gilded twilight, it was a blanket of immeasurable karats that warmed its worshippers and heretics without discrimination of class.
Its secret was in the carbon monoxide emissions, the pollutants themselves, disbursed throughout a congested and bristling day that intensified the light in a way that was unseen by the cleaner parts of the world.
Some said it was a window, a glimpse into everything that every living person had once strived for. The journey that had vanquished all hope in the end when it was discovered that no door accompanied God's architecture.
Idle hands were the devil's playground, they said. Every being under the coat of toxic filth lived shattered lives, working toward a fruitless end, gasping for survival. There was no room for miracles, there were no untainted heroes. There was existence in the fog of grime for the sake of obligation. Life was given, and it was revoked. God's cruel joke on man.
So few, if any, lived for a purpose.
The best that could be hoped for was another bright sunset, a last glimmer of hope that maybe it would come up after it left the world in a sheet of embittered amethyst. Illumination of every sin was the last comfort, a nest for those that had given up.
Heathens and believers alike were resigned to routine and mediocrity. Pleasure, fruition, and dreams were forgotten concepts.
Earth as was once known was no more.
Escape was futile, and the very idea was never uttered aloud like an unwritten rule. Those who did were the outcasts, the few remaining free spirits that lived not for hope, but in challenge. To what end was not known, but perhaps it was a question of who really possessed the reigns of their existence. Sex, drugs, violence; it was a den of depravity when the sun's serenity seeped away into the inky black mass of uncertainty.
Nothing was a fate worse than exile, a place where the sun would never shine so lustrously.
Devil's playground, it was, and we were God's idle hands.
Eight seconds.
The air was warm and the surreal orange light was reflecting off of the blades of grass, shards of razor tipped emeralds.
Fourteen.
Laughter, soft and timid, contaminated with reverence.
Sixteen.
He heard his name and felt cold arms slither around him, so long, enveloping the entirety of his tiny frame in a loose hold. Was she always like this, or was this the way he projected her in his memory?
Twenty.
And it was gone.
Glowing aqua eyes flared open, and their owner gasped for air as though he hadn't been breathing for several minutes. The setting would be the same as always, and he didn't need to look to know he was in a flood of dark sheets, dark walls, dark shadows, and heavy silence. Slowly, he sat up and let his legs drop over the side of the bed, the cool carpet on his feet a welcome contrast to the heat of the bed. His body was coated in droplets of sweat, his hair dampened and sticking to the skin of his back. He felt sick, bile rising in his throat, and his insides clenched and shivering. He remained still, however, his eyes focused on the untidy floor, hunched over, hands grasping the roots of his hair as he forced himself to draw in begrudging breaths. Inhale, exhale.
It was the third time in two weeks, each time growing progressively longer. Twenty seconds, he had counted even in REM state. A gift of his brain, maybe his training. Twenty seconds; thirteen seconds longer than the last. He had heard once that dreams never lasted more than a few seconds, but the slowing of functionality in the brain while sleeping made them appear longer. Maybe he'd only been perceiving the time of each dream as such, but it didn't change the fact that they were increasing in duration every time. Details were becoming clearer, but still too abstract to grasp.
There was no question who it had been in the dream. He knew that from the first time. Her voice was ingrained in his memory, and would be for the rest of his life. The arms, though, he didn't remember her feeling like that. Long it had been, but he knew that she never felt so frigid to the touch. Maybe it meant something. Some twisted insight into the past, a metaphor meant to scare him about his present. Maybe it meant nothing, and he was wasting his time thinking about it.
The breathing had slowed and become natural again, and he finally lifted his eyes from the carpet to the drawer of the cluttered nightstand beside his bed. Then his eyes dropped back down.
He needed sleep. Badly. The strain on his body was invisible, but he was feeling it with every move he made. He'd become accustomed to living this way to some degree; suspended wakefulness, gritting his teeth with a sardonic grin through days on end and a collective six or seven hours of rest. But it always caught up, and there were two options.
His throat tightened and he raised his eyes to the nightstand again, swallowing down the constriction. He was feeling cold suddenly, the moisture over his bare body turning to little pinpricks of ice. He shuddered and let his fingers fall from their hold on his hair, wiping at the sweat that covered his brow and finally settling with his forearms on his knees. He sat like that for several moments, but every tick of his internal clock felt like days were flashing past.
Shakily, he extended a lanky arm toward the drawer.
"Another one?"
He drew his arm back as he felt arms slide around his waist. Warm and inviting. He closed his eyes.
"Yeah."
A kiss was placed on the top of his shoulder, and he parted his lips to take a breath. How was she was so warm?
He could feel her nod behind him. She didn't ask. She never did. He couldn't decide if he was grateful or not.
It took him another few ticks of that clock to realize he was being pulled, brought onto his back, and into his flood of dark sheets, small, warm hands drifting soundlessly over his chest, and then a mass of dark hair blanketing him as he felt her head lean against his thundering heart.
There was only silence as they both witnessed his body returning to a rhythmic pattern. Steady, human.
"You need sleep."
Her voice was laced with acuity, a flash of jade irises and large, fluid pools of obsidian to accompany it.
A turn of his head was his reply, his gaze finding the nightstand once more. Two options only.
He felt her body, her hair, her arms so unlike the cold, snakelike limbs of his dreams. He felt her gaze bore into him, the stilling of her breath against his flesh as she waited patiently. Always patient. He could feel her legs, flush against his own, unconcerned of the moisture that coated his skin. He could feel her hands, brushing the remnants of that hour from his body.
The ticks became mere seconds once again, and he lowered his eyes back to her.
He conceded with a nod, and brought his cold hands to her shoulders, absorbing their heat, and pulling her up to him.
She gave no resistance, and covered him with herself. She shielded him from the cold of the outside and he closed his eyes, waiting for her heat to wash through him and let him have a few precious moments of empty wakelessness.