Twilight at the Midnight

There was a certain sense of foreboding at the Midnight, with a heavy weight to the air that can only be described as ominous: entering the liquor-and-smoke saturated enclosure, you would suddenly have the feeling that something was amiss. You should know that, just a few moments ago, the Midnight became a pile of ashes and red-hot ambers, a mere suggestion of the building it once was. Even now, some of its low-brow clientele are whispering that a freak accident or faulty electrical wiring was to blame; others are wondering if its owner decided to torch the place for the insurance money or simply to get away from the madness. But I…I find myself consumed by the idea that something else destroyed that café; something that no one can put a finger on, and something that defies mere logic and the idea that everything has its own reasonable explanation.

The Midnight, as it was called by its patrons, could be found in a lifeless back alley, shrouded by skyscrapers and the morals for which they may, or may not, have stood. Onlookers and passersby simply knew it was a miserable excuse for a building, an eyesore. But, before falling victim to the flames, the Midnight catered to the parasites of modern society: prostitutes, drug dealers and the addicts who worshiped them, and all the signatures of organized crime. I myself was a member of the latter, for reasons that still astound me.

They call me "The Prophet". Since birth, I have been plagued by night terrors and consequent insomnia. It's true that nightmares are not uncommon, but while you were dreaming of being naked in front of your class, I dreamt that the grocer would be killed in a robbery, that the doctor would be stabbed by a friend, and that the teacher down the street would be hit by a car during her evening jog. My “talent” soon brought me to the attention of the Midnight Lord, a hardened con who drafted me in his army of criminals, the very same criminals I wanted to put behind bars for torturing my sleep. In the end, I knew going to the police would land me in a pine box, assuming I got lucky. So, I reluctantly became one of them, stalling for time until I could think of a way out.

I wasn't prepared for what happened that night, after several months of servitude, at 2:17 a.m.; dreaming of a future murder is one thing, but dreaming of your own...that's altogether different. The dream was choppy, lacking in detail – something that had never happened before. I saw a great tower against a starry sky – a flight of stairs – burning light – then nothing. Shivering in a cold sweat, I tried to figure out why my death would be next on the list. Then it hit me: they knew. They knew I was thinking about being a police informant, a spy...that's why I was going to be executed.

As foolish as I knew it to be, I had to get back to the Midnight, back to that cursed bar surrounded by skyscrapers that breached the heavens. If the Lord wanted me dead, running away would do nothing to impede his efforts. Besides, if I was going to die, I wanted to take as many of these villains with me as I possibly could. I left my apartment, making my way -- one last time -- to that infernal café. When I arrived, the Midnight was almost empty.

"I sent them for you, Prophet," a voice boomed behind me.

"Then I guess I left just in time."

"Guess so. I know what you want to do," he sighed, loading a revolver, "and I can't allow you to do it."

"If I die tonight...so will you."

We stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, refusing even to blink lest one of us make a move in that minuscule moment of blindness. Before I knew it, my feet had left the ground, a few shots had been fired, and I was ducking behind the bar. As he sent bullets over my head, bottles and glasses crashed around my feet, spilling liquor over the floor and counter. His revolver emptied, I headed for the back door while he paused to reload. I was in the warehouse, where all of the drugs and guns and women were sold. I hid behind a stack of crates, then heard the door open and close once more.

"You know as well as I do, Prophet, you're not going to leave this place alive."

He was right, and I knew he was right, but it didn't matter. I wasn't going to die without having something to show for it. He fired his gun at one of the crates; liquor bled from the wound. I heard him move to my right, so I fled to the back left corner, out of sight. I had neither a gun nor a knife, and my options were running short; the only exit was blocked by the smell of gunpowder and the promise of death. The Midnight Lord wouldn't have to look for me much longer. Then I saw it; resting on the floor next to a ladder was a book of matches and a rag. Liquor had been spilled all over the floor; the Lord's feet were saturated by it. All I needed to do was get in the right position.

"Your only exit is through the barrel of this revolver, Prophet!"

Hearing him reload, I took my chance and dashed behind a tall crate that contained my salvation.

"You're right, as always. The odds are in your favour that I will not leave this room alive."

"I'm glad to see you're coming to your senses." I heard him spin the chamber into place.

"So am I."

Time seemed to almost stop as I leapt out from behind the crates; a couple shots were fired before he saw the flames shrouding my right hand. I looked him dead in the eye and threw the Molotov cocktail at his feet. The bottle of whiskey exploded on impact, igniting the liquor around the Lord's feet. He dropped his revolver in pain, writhing and screaming like a heretic at the stake, burning in the baptismal hellfire of his own creation. As he collapsed and his screams yielded to the fire, the wooden, liquor-infested crates around him echoed his death. I inhaled for what felt like the first time, doubling over as the pain shot through my body. Touching my chest, a crimson stain was left on my fingers. I fell to the floor in slow motion, the room spinning around me in a fiery glow. My head hit the ground, and as I looked around and drew my last breath, I saw haunting, flashing red lights...

...I drew in a deep breath and sat up slowly in my bed, a blood-red "2:17 a.m." aflame on the clock beside me.

End