Two gum trees flanked the court’s entrance, and there at the end, slouched the streetlight. The slender grey thing bent its bulbous head into the court, leering with one unblinking eye.

He hated that streetlamp. 

He had only himself to blame really, fixing the window shades at such a crooked angle that ushered a silver beam of light into his sleeping face. He said he was a light sleeper, and he was. He fine with noise; he once slept like a babe when an entire platoon was routinely abused and shouted in unison. He was fine with smell; his buddy had to kick him awake complaining that he snored as loudly as the pigs next door. 

But light. Light always kept sleep away. Light also adorned him with eye bags every morning his reflection greeted him. Not that his colleagues cared; work never cared. He told himself he would fix the shades. But there was always a tomorrow. And then another tomorrow. And yet more. 

Sleep, what little of it, found him adrift in a creaking old boat that groaned with every knock of the waves. And across him sat its captain, an incredibly shrivelled man, similarly ancient and weathered, a ready smile and a hearty laugh to welcome him. 

The boat bobbed on black waves at the entrance of a harbour, keeping a short distance away from a spit of land cobbled together by jumbles of rocks. At the edge of the spit, leaning ever so slightly into the mouth of the bay, stood the streetlight. It was bigger here, standing proud in a mockery of a lighthouse. And like a lighthouse, the accursed beam of light wandered in idiotic circle around the emancipated thing, prowling for an unknown prey. 

Behind him rose tall, unblemished alabaster towers with glowing windows. Conversations murmured through white latticed windows, down the empty marble streets, carrying a promise of civilisation and comfort. Celebration echoed from each building, yet he could never discern what the celebration was about. Still, polite sounds rolled down the harbour front like an oily sludge. He longed with curiosity, yet disquiet gnawed at him when he gazed at the nameless port city; something felt amiss about the city of delights. His faithful companion offered an inane grin. 

For a while, the captain would row in silence. He would watch with somewhat morbid fascination as the rotting oar slithered through the black sheen of the water. In and out. Like a breath. In and out. When the boat entered an odd cadence, the captain began his stories: each tale magnificent and fabulous; each tale punctuated with his throaty laugh. In the floating cities of Azures, he sailed with dubious comrades in colourful cloud ships; the domed city Shinan-Beneath-the-Waves saw him hunted by the mischievous moray motherpearls; in the stolen kingdom of Anut, he bested the fabled thief Twitch at a game of wits. And so on the stories go. While he has never seen these places, the captain’s honeyed tongue mastered such powerful imageries that he was sure he was beside the captain on his adventures. 

And at the end of each dream, the captain would open a sack secreted at the back of the boat. From it, he could smell the scent of freshly baked bread. The captain would break a cob of bread, stretch out a gnarled hand and offer his guest half. It would remind him how hungry he was, and he would accept it graciously. He would take a bite, feeling the wonderful warmth heady with raisins and oats fill his mouth, and hear a mournful horn wailing just beyond the harbour. He would look, and before he swallowed, that damnable brilliance would blind him back into the waking world.

He hated that streetlight.  

Autumn’s orange glow muted into the greys of winter. Exhaustion permeated his bones along with winter’s chill. Cold seeped through the walls and mornings frosted his front lawn into a delicate white carpet. As days yielded to darkness early, by the time he got home, the streetlight was already sulking at the end of the court, staring at him. When he finally got to sleep, the captain would celebrate his return with more otherworldly tales. The boat never travelled far; it loitered at the mouth of the harbour, too reluctant to enter its safety, yet too timid to venture into the abyssal expanse beyond. And each night the glare of the streetlight blasted him back to wakefulness.  

That fateful day, rain battered his slight frame as he stumbled to his front door when he noticed the crushed cigarette butt on his front lawn. The forlorn thing sat limp and forgotten amongst the grass. An odd thing to be acutely aware of, yet the cold clawed up his spine with dread. A dread that blossomed into fear when he opened the front door, and watched a pale wisp of blue smoke escape from his house; inside, his home stank of cigarettes. A brave umbrella in hand, he hunted for a break-in, but the wagging tail of his excited dog told him no one else visited the house. He set about spraying air fresheners, yet deep into the night, that cloying stench lingered.

He was once again with the captain. This time, he resolved to ask the captain about the nameless city behind him. The captain gaze fondly at the white towers and immaculate balconies. Revelries tinkled carelessly from open windows, spilling laughter and conversations into the harbour. The city, the captain said, was a magical and insidious place. It was a city of dreams and desires; anyone could enter the gilded walls and partake pleasures to his heart’s desire. It respects and welcomes its guest, but jealously guards it citizens. So long as one does not partake of the fruits of the city, he would be free to leave. But who would be that strong of heart to resist the poisonous allures on offer? Every comfort imaginable were for the taking, if one paid the price of losing what’s most important about life - himself. 

He followed the captain’s gaze, and there, beneath the accusing glare of stars, he saw him. The man leaned upon a balcony’s banister, warm lights behind rendered him little more than a deep silhouette. He wore a top hat and in his hand, a cigarette. And then, their eyes met. 

Fear convulsed through his body. He tasted bitter bile and his stomach lurched; suddenly the old boat seemed pathetically fragile against the rapacious darkness of the waters. The captain clambered over and placed a reassuring hand on him, but it only intensified the bilious attack. The man in a top hat gave him a sly nod. He tipped his hat, gave a short bow, and puffed on his cigarette. Blue smoke curled towards him on unseen currents and he tasted the its bitterness. He felt a painful punch just below his chest, flung his head over the side of the boat and spewed a hot stream of acid and bile. The world faded to white. 

He woke himself screaming and retching into his pillows. His skin crawled with the corrupting thought of the man in the top hat and the captain’s wet clammy touch. He heaved in the chilly air and froze; the air was choked with the acrid tang of cigarette smoke. He scrambled to the window and hoisted the shades. A fog rolled in earlier that night. smothering the world outside, the streetlight, no more than moping glare. And there he was, under the old gum tree, no more than a silhouette, top hat askew, giving a short bow, and the ember of a cigarette in his mouth. 

His screams pushed through his ragged burning throat, escaping as pathetic whimpers and moan. A breeze eddied the fog and the malicious shadow distended, wavered, then dissolved into the fog, leaving the still smouldering cigarette on his front lawn. 

Sleep was impossible that night; he couldn’t sleep nor did he try to. As was the next. And the next. He went through the days like a man haunted, a husk scrabbling for shreds of sanity. His mind barely functioned, but he learnt there were two types of people: one that forced themselves upon him, adamant that they can fix his life, and the other who made it an incredible effort to ignore his existence. His room was still redolent with cigarette smoke so he moved out into the living room. He tried to rationalist that it was a bad night terror, that he would not relive it again. Yet, scrunched up on the couch, his eyes were too afraid to close. In the dark, all he could see was that cigarette ember. 

Morning came with him staring up at the ceiling. Things blended into an incomprehensible blur. He was brushing his teeth, but next he was picking up a burnt toast from the ground. He was putting on his shirt in his room when he walked into a door at the other end of the house. He was staring absently into the mirror but was also confused staring at his keys drowning in a bowl of milk. He remembered putting on his shoes. That he remembered. And closing the door. And locking it. And then, a horrendous crunch. Time dilated and he seemed to register everything and nothing at once. He banged his head on something hard, felt his body flopped, and wondered why he was staring at the passenger seat at a weird angle.  He felt more than heard an insistent mechanical wail of a car horn in the distant, accompanied by an inhuman moan. His vision was odd, focused yet off-kilter, and then he realised his glasses were horribly askew. He shifted a little to the right. And looked up.

He looked up into the audient void and saw the stars. They glimmered mischievously, and then, they stared back. He was suddenly falling down an impossible chasm. He knew that somehow, he was not where he thought he was. He knew that something was quite wrong.

What he did not know was how he was suddenly drowning.

Black, foetid water flooded his mouth and the biting cold froze his screams in his throat. Unseen things twisted around his torso, each disgusting touch ravenous with primal hunger. The things tugged, dragging him under the waves. Pain exploded behind his eyes as he tried to kick. The things relented in surprise, and he broke the surface, releasing the scream which burned out of his lungs. For a moment, he thought the stars looked happy.

The captain’s boat was nowhere to be found; he was alone. Hysteria boiling in his veins, he noticed for the first time, the oily, coppery stench of the sea. Too many things died in these black waters and the grasping things craved for more. Yet he fought, clawing and kicking the things, fresh pain blazing up his body like never before. Then, he was struck by powerful radiance. 

The streetlight. 

The things shrank away, as though melting in the clinical light. He pushed his broken body towards the streetlight, each movement searing with pain. Stroke by agonising stroke, he reached for the streetlight's cold gaze. The things broke the water to churn maddeningly around him, shouting and gibbering, their words lost in his own fight against his pain. The things attempted to embraced him again. He bit and tore at his assailant, his mouth coming away with salty blood and ragged flesh. He grinned with a fierce pride as he heard the inhuman things scream.

He was so close, so close to the streetlight. He could almost touch the seaweed smothered rocks that it stood on. He could feel the waves breaking upon the shore. Yet, the things beneath renewed their efforts. Powerful muscles wrapped around him, squeezing out his breath and strength. He gave one last cry and felt his body surrender. He hung there in the dark waters for a moment, neither drowning nor floating.

The stars were laughing. The city was laughing. The water was laughing. The hunt was at an end. He could feel their excitement like a hum pulsing through the water. They were closer now, malignant judging him. He knew then that he was but their entertainment. He was their fish in a glassbowl; they were unknowable overloads, unseeable faces that savoured his struggles with malefic curiosity. His head dipped beneath the waves, and through a thin film of water, he watched the streetlight sputter a little, almost apologetic. At least he was in the light. 

A weight shattered the predatory calm of the water and the things screeched back with an anguish defiance. A boat slid in. And then, an oar. His hands, devoid of will, could only weakly caress the slimy thing. The oar propped him up a little, and he rested his face on the blade. He buried his nose into the rotting oar, and yet the stench of that spongy wood was infinitely better than the hungry touch of the water. 

The captain helped him into the boat. Utterly weak, he collapsed into the captain and leaned heavily into the skeleton of a man. At least there was a heartbeat. What a comforting sound. At least there was some warmth. The captain dried him, swaddled him with blankets and then retrieved the sack of provisions. As he did every night, the captain then broke the bread, and offered half to him. The light was still blinding, but his eyes were too rheumy, his exhaustion too profound, his hunger too great. He bit down on the bread and swallowed; he did not care.

He woke to an unfamiliar ceiling, way too bright and sterile; the air heavy with disinfectants. He was in bed, not uncomfortable, but he could not feel his limbs. He could see them, see them tied down to the bed, encased in plaster casts, but he still could not feel them. They were, absent. Or sleeping. A man came by, clipboard in hand. He smelt of cheap deodorant and breath mints. Clipboard man started talking, asking questions that he did not understand. His head started pounding. His vision swam, and his stomach began heaving. The man pressed a button near him, and started repositioning his head. Vomit and spit trickled out of his mouth and he gasped for breath. Then he saw what’s on the clipboard. 

Car accident. Violent. Indiscriminate assault. Bit people trying to help him. Caused severe damage. Punching. Fighting. Crawling on the asphalt. Crawling. Crawling. Screaming. 

He slumped back into bed as more people materialised and prodded him. They cleaned him of his vomit and prodded him more. He looked at them dumbly, not understanding a single word; he gave maybe nods; he wasn’t sure of anything himself. They continued their deranged murmuring. They looked at him like a fish in a fishbowl, there for their entertainment. Then, he saw them inject a clear liquid into his arm, and he welcomed the blissful darkness that faded in. 

He was at a balcony, gazing fondly at the streetlight. Whatever they did to him, it was fading quickly in the warmth of the streetlight. Comfort and strength washed over him like the old captain’s care. Behind him, the sounds of a party that he had momentarily left. In fact, there was always a party here. And the people are ever so carefree. They spoke from their hearts without fear of judgement and they enjoyed all the delights in the world. A waiter offered him a glass of wine, and he breathed in a sweet delicate bouquet. Its richness soothed a thirst he didn’t know he had, and warmed him from the inside. 

Outside, the old man was readying his boat again. He took pity on the old man for a while now; everyone knows he tried to defy the city and was left in that pitiful state. Yet, night after night he struggled and against his fate. His perseverance paid off, for the city relented and struck some unknown bargain. Henceforth, every night, the old man rows out to the harbour in that damnable boat, for reasons he did not know.

An inspiration of charity had him give the old man a sack of provisions for his nightly trips. Particularly, he requested the bakers to pack a cob of bread fresh from the ovens. After all, everyone deserves to eat. How queer, the old man rowed to the harbour and sat in the water, waiting. Just waiting. For a good part of an hour. He leaned wistfully against the bannister and watched. 

There! A shadow! It seems like the old man has company on his boat after all! He felt a little pride at this newfound acquaintance, mingled with a tinge of regret. His confusion was brief, however, washed away with a sip of the fine wine. 

Ah, the newcomer was looking at him. The old man must have spoken about his generosity.

He tipped his top hat, gave a short bow in recognition, smiled and puffed on his cigarette.