The walls of the city approached in deep silence, passing by the windows of the car like flies in a frenzy. Everything seemed helpless, beyond despair or self-pity. A dark feeling broomed over his shoulders, the hair in the back of his head in unsuccessful attempt to escape from the scalp. There was nothing to do there. There never was. There would never be. Yet he drove in the night, into the realms of ancient solitude. The city rotted alone.
A sudden shadow passed, then a bump and the sound of a violent brake. The car skidded and nearly overturned. Silence followed. The man left the car, closed the door. He was wary. In his hand a knife shone, reflecting glimpses of the few lights that had not yet faded away. Urbane lights.
He walked towards a black mass, maybe a body, who could know? His vision felt blurry with the drops of sweat that flowed from his forehead. He weaved them away with a sleeve.
But the black thing was not there to be seen.
The man got nervous. His knife loosened in his fingers. He checked the car, the door left open. Nothing moved in there. He could devise nothing but the faintest blue in the nightfall beyond. Stepping back towards his vehicle, he heard something droping, something liquid. Water? Oil? His eyes widened and his pupil dilated. He stopped for a moment to listen very carefully. It had stopped. Spasms of fear started to take over his body in each heartbeat. He ran.
Soon he was inside his car, driving madly by the streets of the city. The man wondered what had happened there, until he could no more. His imagination faded away as the days went by, but somehow he knew that he should not have stopped. He should have never left the car, the safety of speed and steel. As the vehicle crossed downtown, he promised himself he would never do such thing again. He would survive.
After half an hour he had to stop. He had to cross through a broken highway. Probably an earthquake or a bombshell, no one could know for sure. Yet there it lied, uncrossable. Scattered here and there were the carcasses of buses and other cars, trucks half hanging in the blink of the fall. The night could almost be touched, the air filled with a morose, greasy feeling. His skin was damp, his armspit swam in sweat and he did not care about whipping his wet forehead anymore. The man's face shone, touched by the dim lights of the car panel. A streak of despair started to roam in the deep of his eyes.
The man made his way back. He had to find another road to the other side.
The city held many streets, many ways, many bridges and many tunnels. The man followed one of them, fearing for what he could find. Or for what could find him. The tunnel had no indication whatsoever. It seemed half buried by dust, grey and dry. He drove slow but steady, and could not help to notice dark marks in the walls, along with white crosses that spreaded infinitely. Some written words, unintelligible. Yet, near the end of that underway he read one that could not be too old.
"All the king's horses and all the king's men", it said.
And then he left. Ahead, the concrete made twists and turns in itself, distorted by nothing the man could slightly understand at the time. Where once lied foundations and cement there were holes and ashes lingering stubbornly, even though the wind would blow harsh and strong. There were no people.
From there the car refused to work. The ignition would not turn. The panel lights were gone before he could know where exactly he was. But then, he had already understood. The man was close. He took his knife and strapped it to his hand with a strand of leather. He was trembling so much. It was cold outside, but even colder inside. He had not even realized that his sweat was crystallizing over his skin, frozen by an unannounced winter. Tears hung like diamond trinkets in his eyelashes. His beard was turning snow white.
He walked through the distorted skycrapers and overturned columns. The street were covered by shattered glass, and here and there flocks of snow started to pack together. A few steps and the man saw shadows lurking in the alleys. He could not truly see them, for they were nothing but vanished faces. He knew they were touched by the hunger of the shades, and that they were ruined. He was afraid he would turn into them, like many more did before him.
The man rushed and held his knife dearly to his chest. The road followed slowly uphill. By then, the buildings were bending over it like tunneled trees, moving slowly to the chant of the weather. The cold winds were rising. In the broken windows he saw pale children with gleaming eyes, starving to death but clutching each other tight. He could not see the sky anymore.
At some point he stopped hearing anything: the silence finally broke into his hears like a battering ram, swift but unnoticed. He did not feel the blood streaming over his neck. The man's hair froze and pulverized with each gust of wind. The path was covered with snow, the whitest snow that ever was. A tiny rose red bloomed whenever a drop of his blood would touch the ground. The roses sang, but he could not hear.
The man did not remember how long had he walked, for the path seemed much longer than he had expected. The heavy blanket of snowflakes only made it worse. The inward city was there before him, but it kept twisting and bending, as if reducing themselves by some sort of spiral gravity. Then he saw that he himself was walking with his spine bent gradually to the left, and that he could not change it anymore. He was bent like a tree whipped too long by the ocean breeze. But he felt no pain at all. He felt numb.
At last the path came to an end, it seemed. The knife in his hand had become his hand, his beard had grown long like glacial stalactites, he walked twisted to the side and felt blue and purple and gray and red and old. But he was there, he could feel it. There was a door, and there was a golden knob, and he pulled it and it opened.
"My dear, oh, my dear, oh, so long!"
A voice echoed. The man entered in a room, lavish and antique, furnished with the most luxurious itens. Everything good, but everything in bad shape and broken, spoiled by mold, darkened by smoke, decorative jars and frames shattered or hanging in pity. The back wall had been teared down. From there he could see a vivid electric-blue horizon peeking at him over the spreaded body of the city. It was huge, but the man was in its heart. Behind him, someone touched his ears with both hands.
"You have come to meet me, have you not?"
The man could hear the voice. He was surprised, but made no movement.
"Oh dear, you can talk to me. You must!"
"Yes. I came to talk to you." His voice was raspy cold. Bits of his beard splintered.
"Why, you have just talked, did you not?"
"No, not yet. I didn't come to talk with words"
A flush of shadows, a rush of dust, a sudden whirlwind surrounded the room. In its center a vulture appeared. Her skin was black and ashen. Plastic ripe. She had no hair, she had not eyebrows, she held no lights. Her lips were dark cyan, her eyes dark sapphires. Everything about her was dark, as if covered by layers of contempt, shame and decay. She hid behind her darkness and her shadow concealed her from others. Her cloth smoldered in smudge, a silk of dark sludge. She had wires in place of veins. She had a twister for a heart.
She was tall and reached the ceiling, and grew more and broke through it and the whole building went apart. Yet there the man stood, a small, dismayed figure, bent, frail and weary. The night sky reigned over them, filled with constellations, absent and distant. The electric feel of the horizon was there to be felt, a slim line of blue and thunder.
"You fool! I saw you when you touched me with your filthy wheels. You were never brave, never bright! I sought to speak to you, but your fear was so pitiful, so ridicule, shaking like a child. And yet here you are, the most foolish of them all!", boasted her, her voice deep and grave. The snow storm swirled around then in madness.
"You let it be, we all know it. We mourn you for what you were and curse you for what you have become", said the man.
He walked towards a black mass, maybe a body, who could know? His vision felt blurry with the drops of sweat that flowed from his forehead. He weaved them away with a sleeve.
But the black thing was not there to be seen.
The man got nervous. His knife loosened in his fingers. He checked the car, the door left open. Nothing moved in there. He could devise nothing but the faintest blue in the nightfall beyond. Stepping back towards his vehicle, he heard something droping, something liquid. Water? Oil? His eyes widened and his pupil dilated. He stopped for a moment to listen very carefully. It had stopped. Spasms of fear started to take over his body in each heartbeat. He ran.
Soon he was inside his car, driving madly by the streets of the city. The man wondered what had happened there, until he could no more. His imagination faded away as the days went by, but somehow he knew that he should not have stopped. He should have never left the car, the safety of speed and steel. As the vehicle crossed downtown, he promised himself he would never do such thing again. He would survive.
After half an hour he had to stop. He had to cross through a broken highway. Probably an earthquake or a bombshell, no one could know for sure. Yet there it lied, uncrossable. Scattered here and there were the carcasses of buses and other cars, trucks half hanging in the blink of the fall. The night could almost be touched, the air filled with a morose, greasy feeling. His skin was damp, his armspit swam in sweat and he did not care about whipping his wet forehead anymore. The man's face shone, touched by the dim lights of the car panel. A streak of despair started to roam in the deep of his eyes.
The man made his way back. He had to find another road to the other side.
The city held many streets, many ways, many bridges and many tunnels. The man followed one of them, fearing for what he could find. Or for what could find him. The tunnel had no indication whatsoever. It seemed half buried by dust, grey and dry. He drove slow but steady, and could not help to notice dark marks in the walls, along with white crosses that spreaded infinitely. Some written words, unintelligible. Yet, near the end of that underway he read one that could not be too old.
"All the king's horses and all the king's men", it said.
And then he left. Ahead, the concrete made twists and turns in itself, distorted by nothing the man could slightly understand at the time. Where once lied foundations and cement there were holes and ashes lingering stubbornly, even though the wind would blow harsh and strong. There were no people.
From there the car refused to work. The ignition would not turn. The panel lights were gone before he could know where exactly he was. But then, he had already understood. The man was close. He took his knife and strapped it to his hand with a strand of leather. He was trembling so much. It was cold outside, but even colder inside. He had not even realized that his sweat was crystallizing over his skin, frozen by an unannounced winter. Tears hung like diamond trinkets in his eyelashes. His beard was turning snow white.
He walked through the distorted skycrapers and overturned columns. The street were covered by shattered glass, and here and there flocks of snow started to pack together. A few steps and the man saw shadows lurking in the alleys. He could not truly see them, for they were nothing but vanished faces. He knew they were touched by the hunger of the shades, and that they were ruined. He was afraid he would turn into them, like many more did before him.
The man rushed and held his knife dearly to his chest. The road followed slowly uphill. By then, the buildings were bending over it like tunneled trees, moving slowly to the chant of the weather. The cold winds were rising. In the broken windows he saw pale children with gleaming eyes, starving to death but clutching each other tight. He could not see the sky anymore.
At some point he stopped hearing anything: the silence finally broke into his hears like a battering ram, swift but unnoticed. He did not feel the blood streaming over his neck. The man's hair froze and pulverized with each gust of wind. The path was covered with snow, the whitest snow that ever was. A tiny rose red bloomed whenever a drop of his blood would touch the ground. The roses sang, but he could not hear.
The man did not remember how long had he walked, for the path seemed much longer than he had expected. The heavy blanket of snowflakes only made it worse. The inward city was there before him, but it kept twisting and bending, as if reducing themselves by some sort of spiral gravity. Then he saw that he himself was walking with his spine bent gradually to the left, and that he could not change it anymore. He was bent like a tree whipped too long by the ocean breeze. But he felt no pain at all. He felt numb.
At last the path came to an end, it seemed. The knife in his hand had become his hand, his beard had grown long like glacial stalactites, he walked twisted to the side and felt blue and purple and gray and red and old. But he was there, he could feel it. There was a door, and there was a golden knob, and he pulled it and it opened.
"My dear, oh, my dear, oh, so long!"
A voice echoed. The man entered in a room, lavish and antique, furnished with the most luxurious itens. Everything good, but everything in bad shape and broken, spoiled by mold, darkened by smoke, decorative jars and frames shattered or hanging in pity. The back wall had been teared down. From there he could see a vivid electric-blue horizon peeking at him over the spreaded body of the city. It was huge, but the man was in its heart. Behind him, someone touched his ears with both hands.
"You have come to meet me, have you not?"
The man could hear the voice. He was surprised, but made no movement.
"Oh dear, you can talk to me. You must!"
"Yes. I came to talk to you." His voice was raspy cold. Bits of his beard splintered.
"Why, you have just talked, did you not?"
"No, not yet. I didn't come to talk with words"
A flush of shadows, a rush of dust, a sudden whirlwind surrounded the room. In its center a vulture appeared. Her skin was black and ashen. Plastic ripe. She had no hair, she had not eyebrows, she held no lights. Her lips were dark cyan, her eyes dark sapphires. Everything about her was dark, as if covered by layers of contempt, shame and decay. She hid behind her darkness and her shadow concealed her from others. Her cloth smoldered in smudge, a silk of dark sludge. She had wires in place of veins. She had a twister for a heart.
She was tall and reached the ceiling, and grew more and broke through it and the whole building went apart. Yet there the man stood, a small, dismayed figure, bent, frail and weary. The night sky reigned over them, filled with constellations, absent and distant. The electric feel of the horizon was there to be felt, a slim line of blue and thunder.
"You fool! I saw you when you touched me with your filthy wheels. You were never brave, never bright! I sought to speak to you, but your fear was so pitiful, so ridicule, shaking like a child. And yet here you are, the most foolish of them all!", boasted her, her voice deep and grave. The snow storm swirled around then in madness.
"You let it be, we all know it. We mourn you for what you were and curse you for what you have become", said the man.
Then he held his knife-hand high and yelled, a shout so powerful it shattered all the ice that covered him and unbent his spine. He was afraid, and he knew it. But for that he tamed fear.
The man ran to face the shadow of the city.
Spirals of blackness swirled, shades were cast and rebound. The clash of man and giant spelled quakes that made the city tremble. She was hurt, but so was he, for though he fought with blade she fought with her bare, black hands, which moved swiftly and fierce. Her sapphire eyes radiated contempt and pride, anger and loss. An obscure grease covered her skin as she moved and danced in the tune of the battle. She seemed to orchestrate a thousand chants of urbane colors and smells, traffic lights wandering in the waning night. All sparkle that was left in the city faded away.
"You could not be saved. And now you must be undone" yelled the man. And with a single blow he cut through her backbone and spine, descending from top to bottom in a flash of steel. She screamed and cried and cursed with words that dripped oil and asphalt, melting all around her.
A timid sunrise started to show its luminous limbs in the dark sky. Here and there scraps of metal and glass shone and blinked in the midst of the ruins. There was no movement, no breath, no life. The city was gone. But the man was there.
He was still there.
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