Photography by Adam Kraft

Narrative by Robert Craig

Defeated and hungry. I look up at the dull overcast sky and fumble in my pockets. I find my keys. The heavy door to the old lobby slams behind me. It smells damp.

I climb the four floors to my flat and lock the door of the one room apartment behind me. It's hot. The building retains the heat. Brick walls like a kiln. The place is stale. I open the window and adjust the make shift bed sheet curtain then change into a shirt and shorts I find on the floor.

On my bed. I sit in the thin failing light. Alone.

I start to sweat. My shirt sticks to my back. I try to collect myself but my mind is aimless and restless. I stare at nothing. Eventually the day gives in to the night and I turn on the ceiling light. The harsh overhead hums.

Behind me I hear the bed sheet blow in the breeze. And soon I can smell rain. I hear a low rumble. Distance thunder like a herd of horses approaching the city.

I check the time on the microwave. The dull blue light makes me anxious. I smell the hair on my arm; it smells like fried food. Under my arms, my sweat like raw onions. It's both arousing and disgusting. And that defeated feeling returns and I am lost in the transitions of my mind. Stuck somewhere between yesterday and these last lost moments. Somewhere between a decade ago and the dark corners where my fears harbor. My stomach sinks. I am treading water again.

I can hear the neighbor next door leaving. Then footsteps down the hall. I check my phone. The screen is blank. A void of connection. On the table there's a soda bottle full of piss. A souvenir of fear.

The bed sheet blows. I hear the rain. It starts to pour. Hard and heavy on the roof top above me. These late summer storms can be deafening. I get off the bed and look out the window at the sprawl of night. The sound of traffic on wet streets.

Then a bolt of lightening lights up the night. I jump back in shock. For a second it is brighter than day. A simultaneous clap of thunder shakes me and the building. My chest is full of the reverberations. My heart is pounding and I'm having trouble breathing. Then it's dark. The power is out.

The sharp smell of ozone.

There's a temporary hush. I push past the bed sheet to see the city in darkness.

Then the overhead light flicks on. Faint at first. Then the dim light grows brighter. I check outside and the power is still out everywhere. I look back at the overhead light. Brighter.

The single bare bulb glows violently. There's a loud static hum. Brighter and brighter. More than it has ever been. I can't see. I cover my eyes. I fumble for the light switch. Frantic, tripping over furniture. Terrified. Finally. On and off. On and off. Again and again. But nothing happens. The overhead doesn't turn off. It only burns brighter. Like a super nova. Like the sun.

Then this sudden heat penetrating my body. Feeling faint.

And then it's over. I catch my breath. The overhead light flickers. The microwave clock blinks.

I run to the widow. And see the city lights burning again. I'm soaked with sweat. And a surge of something soars within. Voices in my head. My heart is heaving. A flood of adrenaline. I am buoyant.

A deep breath. I listen to the night. The busy city below, moving on while I am overwhelmed with light.

Suddenly feasting. Floating on hope.

What the Night Said