All the heat of the sun

****Content Warning: This story contains sensitive themes, including emotional distress, self-harm, and the exploration of loss. Reader discretion is advised.****

The sun and its warmth have long abandoned this world. Leaving the moon and its cool light as its only illumination. 

We used to fear that without the sun, life on Earth would fade away. But that was not the case. We evolved. Everything evolved – everything changed. 

We sleep when the moon starts to settle over the horizon. When it leaves us in complete and utter darkness. But, sleep in itself is a dangerous contraption. You should never venture to risk its use alone. Someone ought to be there, to drag you back to life after you’ve plunged into the pit that is sleep. 

If no one is around, it’s unlikely that you shall ever wake.

Our world doesn't have electricity or useless objects to line the shelves of beautiful houses. We have crud huts and carved-out spaces, barred with the metal harvested from the structures of our ancestors. The world of useless frivolity, and all its history, is lost forever. 

There are no scientists, farmers, or doctors. We are each a singular human, our own deprived and damaged being. Some of us choose to scavenge the lands looting and prying what we can from ruins and stealing from others who are, just like them, trying to survive.

It is just me and my two-year-old son in our small hut. He sleeps while I embrace his small frame. A thin blanket prevents our body's heat from escaping to leave us as cold as the moon grass that lines the hills outside our hut. 

His little body held so utterly close to me carried all the heat of the sun itself. Melting the frigid skin of my exposed arm. He is full of the vibrancy of life and the promises of breathtaking futures. 

The door to my hut is barred, and we are safe within. Those who chose the life of scavengers rummage through the dark, looking for anything they deem useful. They search for food and warmth mostly. The everlasting chill of the moonless wind can drive anyone to desperate measures – for survival.

His sunken cheek rests against my skin and his slow breaths prickle the little hairs of my arm. My eyes, already closed, squeeze tight as I push against the deep pain that tries to concave my chest. 

The tiny, precious hand that sits limp with sleep, swallowed in the depths of my own, twitches as he dreams. What would the dreams of an innocent child be of? Chasing the rabbits over the hills until they scurry into their burrows? Or dancing around the warmth of the communal fire we used to maintain?

 I could never guess, his world held within it the happiness I was no longer able to see.

I trace the palm of his hand, and feel the bones within each digit, all so flawless, slight and delicate. I memorize each line and angle of his smooth skin. There is nothing more perfect than this, nothing to compare. 

My own hands are rough and scared from years of toil and too many missteps in a violent and lacking world. They don’t deserve the touch of something so pure.

His hand jerks out from mine as he tries to turn in his sleep. I gasp, heart instantly racing. I pull his body back, close to my chest and snatch his hand. Muscles tense as I strain to feel his breathing over the pounding of my heart. A tear slips free from my closed eyes. It streams down my temple pooling into the fabric of the makeshift bed. 

Small delicate breaths leave imprints of warmth on my shoulder, turning cold and humid in turn. My breathing slows, and the rise and fall of our chests synchronize once again. 

I trace each imprint of his breath in my mind, memorizing each and every second.

He was always a wild tumbler in his sleep, whipping his hand around, and tossing in neverending circles. Sometimes he would sit up, fully asleep, and lay his head at the bottom of the bed. I used to find it cute. My son is so full of energy, even in his sleep, he couldn’t sit still for a moment. 

But now – now I know how terrifying it is. If I was to drift to sleep he would so easily jump from my arms. Effortlessly lost to the free fall of a cold and endless sleep. 

His breathing is steady and comforting. I risk a sniff from the top of his head. Breathe in the sweet aroma of childhood. No other scent can compare to its memories that bloom from distilled smiles and laughter.

His smell, familiar and heartbreaking, his rhythm, steady and warm, sends cracks to rend my soul. A silent sob ruptures from far within me, my throat constricting as pain tries to bleed its way through to my nerves.  

A cool breeze traces the lines of my neck. I ignore it. My son is asleep and safe in my arms. His warmth still radiates from his small frame in waves. This is but a solitary moment, a memory, but the only one that counts.

Again he flails in his sleep, trying to stretch his limbs wide. His arm falls over my neck as his leg flings over my own. Smiling I run my fingers through his thin airy hair, brushing it back from his face. 

A chill starts to seep through me. No, no I refuse to bear it. I refuse to feel or think of anything other than this distinct moment. 

He is my life. The only reason to keep living. He would go on to be strong and kind, the kind of person who would put order back into the world. Like his father had before he was taken from us.

Rustling accompanies the chill that obliterates the heat from my body. I am left cold, every inch of me shivering my body crying out for warmth. 

In the cascading darkness, I raise to my elbow and eye the open door with blurry eyes. I had left that open, uncaring for the consequences – willing them to come.

Next to me under the faded grey blanket, a small bundle was cradled to my side. I squeeze my eyes shut, bile burning the back of my throat before I lift the edge of the blanket. The exposed yellowed and shapeless pillow sits lifeless beside me.

Throwing myself back, my worthless arms limp and spread to my sides. My breath comes in painful and ragged bursts, as my heart is savagely ripped asunder yet again. Anguished feral sounds scrape from my body as it heaves and convulses. The throes of my torment as memories wash over me.

There is no small bundle of warmth in my arms. 

My son is gone, I buried his cold lifeless body as I whispered for him to not be afraid, his father would care for him now and I would join them both soon.

But, once again I was forced to awaken in a shattered cold world without him.