Midnight sun

2120

"...That would be about it on the celeb scoop for today. As per usual, we will be back tomorrow to let you know how it all pans out. For now, though, we will turn our attention to our own John Levins, who will give us the front on today's weather forecast." The TV screen buzzes and cackles, threads of glitch flashing in various inky colors, seems to fry every last one of Bruno Floyd's nerves, as the screen splits and John's face appears on the right. "Hello there, John." There's a quick silence as she shuffles her papers.  

"Good morning, Michelle." His southern drawl dances on his tongue with wolfish teeth that stretch into a humungous smile, resembling the texture of rubber. Bruno scowls at him, as a dog growls at the enemy. "Yes, the weather forecast will be drastic, to say the least. The morning has been a fascinating first in recorded meteorological history. Yes, my friends, due to the recent heatwave dominating every country globally, we have experienced the first "Midnight Sun" known to mankind. The "Midnight Sun" was first introduced circa 2035. It's a dystopian reality of night not coming. The sun shines as brightly at midnight as it would at say 12 noon in the middle of August on Florida sands." Bruno sits back running a hand through his greasy hair. He tries to ignore the rest of the report, but he can't help hearing the end of John's ramblings on how hot the rest of the day was going to be. A bottle of water sits on the glass table, a couple of shot glasses by its side. His usual appearance, namely a suit and tie with hair gelled back so impeccably, had been replaced by a gigantic loose t-shirt several sizes too big that he had purchased many years ago from a thrift store. This was out of character for him. Bruno Floyd, professor of political science, reminded most of the people around him of a short and stocky James Bond. The t-shirt, which was a mild green also made him look nowhere near masculine, and more like a little boy. 

As he downs, another glass of water he tries to remember why he got this t-shirt in the first place. Experimental reasons? He must have had some sort of motive, he thinks as he looks down in distaste. Nowadays this t-shirt served a purpose though. Sure, at the time he bought it, it may have been nothing but an atrociously ugly garment, but he was happy he hadn't chucked it. More to the point, this t-shirt had been the only one he could wear without completely sweating until he soaked through with his compulsive sweating.

Everything had changed since the heatwave had begun six months ago. Global warming had been a myth to most people, but he didn't count as "most people". He had always known that it was coming, every summer growing up, he had noticed this. As a kid, watching his ice cream melt creamily down his fingers in record time, summer after summer, faster every year. Into his adult years, he could feel it as he watched the ice cubes in his fancy beach cocktails melt even faster than before. Not that he didn't try to make people aware, but like most people who believed in global warming, he was mocked and so he receded into the shadows, bent his head, and continued with his life, knowing that he was approaching his fate one step at a time. He often contemplated the reason people didn't take global warming seriously. His leading theory was that their ancestors ignored its existence. The most evident reason why they ignored it, would have to be pure disempowerment. Often people think if you ignore things they will just go away. Instead of dealing with it, they spent their time making forgettable crappy TV shows, with studio audiences snorting in the background. They let the chance to save it all slip past, and Bruno Floyd couldn't have detested them more for it. 

Now he had to deal with it. Ration on water, wear this t-shirt, never leave the house (ever), sweat like a dog, drink like a dog, curtains always pulled shut, showers, or any form of water usage other than drinking forbidden, dehydrate, hallucinate, death rate numbers accelerating every minute. And now he won't be able to sleep with this "Midnight Sun". The first global lockdown was recorded in 2019 and since then many.  

The weather report finished and the ad break commenced. Something about cooling mattresses. He had bought one a couple of months ago, but it had never arrived. So he reached over to the remote and switched it off and then reached up to his dry sore forehead and rubbed his temples. These big guys in heavy-breathing white suits that protected them from the heat would leave stuff in at the door. Food and water, daily, but other things were often delayed, as they were considered to matter less.

While all of this happened, Bruno had spent his days in front of the TV, with a small, raven-black notebook in his hand and a large bottle of water, that he often pretended was whiskey. He was grateful for the water. He used it sparingly. Four months without a shower now, and he reeked. He pushed through it, but all these things, when joined together, proved difficult, disgusting, and a less innocent version of hell. This had been the hardest part of Bruno's life so far, and he did not admit this willingly. 

Sometimes he wished there was a Mrs. Floyd, but she hadn't shown up at the right time, and he wasn't going to chase down some poor girl. Besides, it was probably best for his research that he had himself he could only rely on himself. He was a lone wolf. And there was no time because he was also going to die soon. 

He had known for a while now but didn't really like acknowledging it, who would?. He knew he was out on luck, a crazy person could've seen that, and he could feel his energy faltering and folding away day after day. And so he needed to document his last piece, in this notebook, he knew he had the leads, and the work was already done. All someone had to do was find it, take the credit and save the human race because however repugnant we prove to be, ultimately all we have is each other. 

He stands up, staggering. His sight blurring, his legs shaking. He falls towards the window before pulling the lever on it and yanking it open. Finally, out of the confinement of his home. It's been six months, he thinks. He extends his hand with the notebook and drops it out of the window. The scorching sun burns a lobster-red heat, that sizzles on his skin. His left hand begins to melt, the pain intensifying, as it smolders receding into his shoulder, and then his heart liquifies.