High in a top floor apartment, the lightening tore past the thin curtains, its brilliance only adding to the dull alcohol fuelled pounding in Matt’s head. For a brief second, the light had reflected off of a photograph taken of him and his brother, almost exactly a year previous. They were dressed in their finest antique Victorian regalia, faces almost smiling for the camera. A stranger seeing the picture might have remarked the two looked like lovers; that was occasionally the truth after all. But not on the night the photo was taken. the occasion was spectacular. Opening night for Jeff’s boyfriend’s first place. The alternative media came in droves, and the night went on far into the morning. When the information had been gathered and photo opportunities exhausted, the three filed home to the very apartment Matt still occupied, and fell into a tired heap, all in one bed. Jeff, Matt and Christian. Brother, brother and lover. They shared the apartment and in the end, middle and towards the beginning, shared each other.

In the definite end, only Matt remained in the huge apartment, the only survivor of what he wasn’t meant to survive.

The musty, smoky wind of the bar hit the man full in the face as he walked in slowly. The lights were dim as always, barely illuminating the dark and under-polished wood. It was a hunting ground. Ever so often, he altered his name, but he'd never been caught. He was too careful.

And tonight, he was Adam.

Adam perused the crowd, looking vaguely at the faces that turned up towards his tall frame. Plenty of people noticed him every night, but no one seemed to notice whom he left with; they all looked the same anyway. 20-something males, beautiful, usually unattached to the city and anyone in it. Adam took a seat at the bar, ordering a coke instead of the occasional drink he might have allowed himself. He never worked unless his head was completely clear.

There was no air in the coffin and it stunk of his own decay. A rhythmic tapping woke him from his death-sleep and Christian's fingernails and the weakened flesh beneath were torn from scraping at the lid, trying desperately to stop the tapping from above so he could rest once more. His heart jolted and pounded alive in his chest, making him gasp with need as flesh opened, expelling the unnatural; the embalming fluid, the other chemicals left in him from the unneeded autopsy. The vertical stab wounds in his chest and back knitted themselves closed. Organs resumed functioning all at once and his brain, lungs and heart screamed for air. His bloody fingers clawed at the stone again and he screamed out at the tapping, infernal tapping that he thought would never end. The lid began to lift with aching slowness and Christian wondered for the first time why. The heavy stone cracked and split above him, showering its cement rain down. His first breath was mingled with dust, and the air was not sweet. It was polluted with his stench and the mould of the tomb the coffin was encased in.

The call of the bird deafened his new-born ears but he welcomed it more than the ceaseless tapping of moments before. The big black bird turned its head to the side and one shiny inky eye focused on Christian as he sat up, stretching out limps that hadn't moved in a year, when rigor mortis had set in. Slowly and awkwardly, he blinked and rose out of the crumbling stone sarcophagus and planting his shaky legs on the floor. The threads of the suit fell around him, long decomposed in the dryness and Christian shivered. The bird called again, flying to the door and cocking his head back around at Christian. He cocked his head in return, stumbling slowly over to the bird, taking his first steps. He heard more tapping but not from the bird. It was rain, dropping through a hole in the small mausoleums domed roof. Then the bird called again and again, scraping its strong beak against the door sending more stone crumbling to the ground. Christian blinked at it then crouched down to its level, watching the concrete give way. He looked down at his hands, finding them clean, unbloody, and looked again to the bird who nodded in impatience. It turned its small head towards the door again. Pushing, it fell apart in Christian's hands and fresh, cold air blew in from amongst the other tombs. The bird flew out, perching itself on a small cherub, cawing over at a slab of stone where a prone figure rested. Noticing his cold nakedness for the first time, Christian understood again what the bird demanded of him. Quickly and noiselessly, Christian peeled the clothes from the half-dead body, slipping them on his rain soaked skin. He took no time to notice the soot-black pants were too large and long, or that the shirt had a multitude of rips. Lastly, he plucked the heavy boots from the feet and left the seemingly ungendered donor to its own bidding in the middle of the soggy cemetery.

The bird flew out, showing Christian the way through the maze of ornate crypts and onto the street. The bird urged him no but he stopped, had to stop to recognise where he was. The park bench, sitting just outside the grey walls, was much too familiar. A wave of irrepressible nausea passed over him, and he was forced to sit down there of all places. His inspiration used to come from the gutter-punks who hung out in front of the cemetery, and from the one who sat down beside him one day and for countless days afterwards. Christian strayed on the bench for precious minutes too long before the bird, his own personal tour guide of the city, grew more impatient and lands on his shoulder, digging his its claws in. Christian turned his head, looking at the bird and wondering if it'd claw him to death if he remained on the bench all night. Its talons dug deeper and Christian rose, only thinking about following the bird even as he found himself skipping gracelessly from rooftop to rooftop, then settling finally, where yellow light and heavy drums poured out of a window left open. Christian first recognised the music, then the man seated tat the table before remembering the apartment. He struggled to get through the window, dexterity and strength fuelled by a need for the warmth of the familiar.