text: A man. Alone and silent in the icy rain. He is bathed in the garish red neon of a cheap strip bar, watching the world around him. Cole remembers the silence, momentary though it was. It is gone now. Replaced by the fury and harshness of a great city, constant and unrelenting in its savage, deafening roar. The whistle of a calm wind is gone, replaced by the unbearable, violent screeching of traffic. The stillness of the trees is taken by the glowing, burning neon lights of hotels and restaurants and stores. In the sprawl, every honk is a gunshot, every screech of tires a dying moan, every flash of light a distress signal. A great and wonderful metropolis, so they say. As Cole gazes around, he sees towering structures and monuments erupting out of the ground, up into the sky. He sees frenzied streets, filled with men and women and cyclists. He sees thousands of cars, and buses choked with passengers and billows of searing black smoke rising up from rusted exhaust pipes. The wind tastes sick and bitter and it carries the stench of burning tires and rotting carcasses. As Cole wanders dark streets, the sharp wind tears against his back like a leather flail. Cole’s stride is heavy and long, his hulking frame constantly hunched over. He emanates sick, violent fear. His eyes are dead and sharp simultaneously. Voices scream and laugh and seductively call out from the shadows. As a planet orbits the sun, Cole orbits violence. As he approaches a bus stop, he feels a hand tap against his shoulder. His head snaps back, and as he turns, he sees a young middle-eastern couple. The woman is smiling, holding her phone out to him. Cole hears nothing in the racket. “Excuse me?” he mumbles. She asks him to take their picture, and Cole looks at the phone. He nods, quietly agreeing. She gives it to him and stands next to her man. Cole holds up the camera, looking at the couple through the screen. Their faces are brightly lit by fiery orange lights. The man tightly embraces her, they are both smiling. And then they aren’t. Their faces are blank and expressionless. Like corpses. They are no longer in the city. They are out in the dust, and Cole is stepping over their bodies, amongst countless others. He grips his rifle tight*.* He looks around, observing the quietness, the stillness of the trees, moments before the cracks of gunfire smash through the air, snapping Cole back to the present. He’s in the city again. Cole stands frozen. He registers nothing. His breathing is heavy and laboured. His back is straight. Every muscle is tightly wound. Something rises up within him, building from his chest into his throat. He stares at their faces, watching their smiles fade into confusion, and eventually hands the phone back. The woman looks at it, and her smile drops. She yells something inaudible and they walk away. Eventually, a bus pulls over at the station, and Cole climbs aboard. He finds a seat at the back and settles in for a long journey. He rests his head upon the glass, staring into the distance. Raindrops begin to roll down the windows. Streaming rainwater and flashes of light dance upon the glass. Red. White. Blue. Time passes strangely, Cole’s perception warped by insomnia. He sits, unmoving, staring through the glass until eventually, the bus driver shouts him back to reality. Cole steps off the bus, into the concrete inferno once more. The street is deserted. The blackness of night is staved off by the faint, dim glow of street lights. As Cole roams the city, the hours slip by in a haze of rain and fog. Eventually, he comes to his apartment building. It towers over the streets, but shrinks before the skyscrapers. The walls are old and grey and beaten down with rain. Concrete crumbles away from the ledges. He stares up at the bright glow of the sign. He listens to the hum of moths crowding around flickering light panels. He walks up to the door, and enters. Inside, the lobby is dim and bland and covered in varying shades of beige. A thin layer of dust has formed over the flickering light bulb. It reeks of cheap air freshener. A security guard sits slumped in a chair at the corner, asleep. Cole awaits the elevator The door rings as it opens, and a man and a woman walk in. A light windcheater jacket is draped over his heavy shoulders. The hems of his jeans sit crumpled over his boots. The woman wears a tan jacket over her blouse. Cole’s gaze follows them as they approach. The man stares back at him, his eyes sharp. Cole looks away. The elevator opens and the two strangers enter, followed by Cole as he shuffles behind them. The man punches a button. The soft yellow light of the elevator illuminates the dust floating around. It casts faint shadows upon her soft face. The man turns to her as they ascend. His eyes are cold and sharp. He trembles slightly with fury. “So, you gonna keep it up?” he says. “Let’s not talk about it here.” she mumbles, her voice fragile. Cole keeps his head down, but watches them. “Why not? Why shouldn’t I talk about it?” “Please, Tom.” “How was he?” He says, contempt rising in his voice. Her eyes beg him to stop and she struggles to maintain calm. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.” “Did it feel good?” She slaps him across the face. Her eyes are deeply bloodshot and slick with tears. The man stares back at her, enraged. Cole looks up at them both. A moment passes. The elevator door opens. The man glances at Cole. He storms out, followed by the woman. Cole goes to his room. Once inside, he slumps down onto the bed, exhausted. His body is weak, yet eludes him. Cole switches on the television and vaguely stares at the bright blue glow. He thinks about the woman. He remembers her face, her hair, the light scent of her perfume. From one room over, he can hear the couple arguing. He hears the woman crying. The man shouting. Something shatters. He listens, and ponders what he will do. A storm of dark thoughts swirls in his mind. \*\*\* He hears the door of the next room click open. Someone is leaving. He pulls himself up, and scrambles over to the door’s peephole. He looks through and sees the man. For the first time in months, a smile creeps over his face. Carefully, he unlocks the door without a sound. He steps out. The man is walking towards the elevator. Cole shuts the door behind him. He follows the man. Exhilaration builds with each step. His fists are coiled tight. His breathing is heavy. The man steps inside the elevator, and just as he turns, Cole is on him. He grabs him by the shoulders and hurls him out of the elevator. The man rolls across the floor. Cole steps out and walks towards him. His cold, piercing eyes remain on the man as he continues his stride. Cole’s hands stay at his side. His movements are relaxed, and he appears almost fatigued, yet he feels totally alive. His blood is pumping. His muscles are tight, ready to spring and wreak bloody havoc. The man pulls himself up and rushes him. Cole ducks under his swing, and grabs him, smashing his head against wall, cracking the plaster. As the man sinks to the floor, Cole stares down at him, possessed. He grabs the man’s collar, and cracks his fist against his cheek. A soft groan comes from his writhing body and he spews red-tainted vomit upon the ivory walls. Cole does it again. And again. Over and over, until his own hands bleed and tremble with searing pain. As he looks down upon his work, a torrent of emotion cascades over him. He is laughing. He is screaming. He is crying. The body lies still. Blood covers Cole. It is speckled upon his cheek. It drips from his beard. It is splattered upon his shirt. The soft yellow carpet below is stained by crimson boot print. The door clicks open and the woman steps out. She sees the man slumped on the ground, his blood seeping through the carpet. Her jaw slowly drops in horror. Cole stares at her, like a child confronting a parent. She backs away, into the room. The door slams shut. Cole watches her go. He feels cold.