NEON -1

It was dark in the subway. The sodium bulb had fused. Anne took her mobile phone out of her coat pocket and for a few seconds the light from its display was the only light around for miles. Then she put it back in her pocket and darkness ruled again. She walked along the wall, tracing its coarseness with her finger-tips. It bruised the skin on her finger-tips and they bled a little. It left a red stain on the dirty walls. She emerged outside where the wind was bellowing loud and hungry. Her hair flew out in an outrage and she pulled her coat around her tightly. She kept walking, along the graffiti that read ‘Dead’, along the recycle bins, along the electric transformers, till she reached the bridge. The view from the bridge was breath-taking. City lights, all amber and red, tiny dots, bright and angry, lay across till the eye could see. There were no stars in the sky. She walked along, holding the railing; the dirty railing held by many hands over the years; where the germs and dirt bred. There were germs from common colds, diarrhea, muck and fleas. She displaced them with her wayward hand. Her nose was cold and red. She sniffed noisily.
“The sun is dead. We buried him.”
Anne turned around with a start. She wondered why she had doubted. Of course it was him. He sat on his hunches. His hair was long and hung around his shoulders. His pale white skin contrasted severely against his black hair and eyes. His hands rested on his knees, limp and empty.
“We put a heavy rock by the entrance. He will not rise.”
“Who will not rise?” asked Anne in a whisper.
The Prophet looked away. He hated repeating himself.
“The sun?” she ventured, “It has not risen for several days. At least there is no rain.”
The Prophet was looking away still, away from the city lights, into the darkness of the subway. Anne started to walk again. Why do they call him Prophet? He is only mad. She smiled to herself. Her lips cracked and bled.