Noan stared blankly into the distance. Jocasta stood silently beside him.
Nothing but dust-covered scrap metal remained of the grand Kuwati town that had bloomed and flourished, fueled by the liquid gold that once lay beneath the ground.
Over the last two decades, people had flocked to the first drop of oil like bees to honey. Noan's grandfather had been digging a grave for his grandmother.
Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Sprrrt.
And so, tragedy had brought about great fortune.
How ironic.
The fact that sandstorms regularly ravaged the area had done little to discourage people from setting up industry in the area. People from all over the country, some even from across the globe, had relocated to poke their fingers in the molten black pie of riches.
Riches. A great motivator for homo-sapiens. Humans will often go to great lengths to find solutions to problems - to cope with insurmountable inconveniences - as long as there is the prospect of financial reward in the future.
And so, money had kept the town standing strong against some of the fiercest sandstorms on the globe. Buildings were reinforced to withstand winds with the strength of a hurricane. Windows were augmented with dust shields.
When the winds came, people huddled at home. And they were safe.
It was not the winds that destroyed everything.
One day, there had been a loud sputtering in the oil pipes. It had been followed by the sound of wooshing air. Then, the metallic scream of machinery grinding to a halt.
The oil wells had run dry.
And when the oil went, so did the peace.
Within a year, the town had gone from city of riches to land of desolation. Men plagued by desperation gambled away what was left of their money. Women sold themselves into prostitution to help their families survive. People fought over food and dropped change in the streets.
Then, one day, a riot broke out.
Cleavers split flesh. Sticks crushed bones. Molotov cocktails shattered against the walls of neighbours hated. And the city began to burn.
Noan and Jocasta retreated into the safety of the oil extraction plant. It was after all, theirs. They hid in the fuel room. A room which contained the last secret reserves of oil in the town. Hidden away, in many many barrels - oil meant to power machinery which no longer served a purpose.
Nolan's hands were shaking.
"I need a cigarette." He shook his cigarette pack, before drawing the harmless looking stick of death from it.
"What is wrong with you? Why would you even think of smoking in here?" Jocasta snapped at him. In the past few months, her temper had been getting shorter. Her outbursts came randomly and unexpectedly.
The conditions of lack had begun to wear on her.
And being an extremely observant person - sometimes to a fault - Noan could not help but notice the brief shadows of weariness that shaded her countenance in between the cheery smiles and hours of lively, animated storytelling. During those brief moments of darkness, the silence was so ominous Noan felt he might drown in them.
With each of Jocasta's outbursts, Noan got more and more confused. Jocasta would be warm and loving one night, then cold and withdrawn the next morning.
It was natural, Noan supposed, for one to have a shorter fuse in the morning - particularly if they were not a morning person. But where did the tenderness and love disappear to, in the scorching light of day?
It was as though they melted away under the hot reality of daylight.
Noan could not help but wonder if the root of the problem lay with him.
Perhaps the darkness of night made Jocasta blind to his faults. Faults which she, in daylight, would not be able to live with. And it was his greatest fear that she would conceal her dissent with all of the emotional subterfuge a woman was capable of, until the day she was ready to let go and walk away.
The ultimate betrayal. Moving on in silence, just so one could be the person to walk away unscathed.
"Why do you always have to be such a naggy cunt?" Noan retorted. He flicked his lighter, and drew in a breath of gaseous relief.
Smack.
The slap across Noan's face flung his cigarette into a pool of oil near his feet.
In an instant, orange flames danced to life. Noan's eyes widened in hapless terror as they began to snake along a trail of oil leading to the barrels of oil.
It was not the speed at which the flames moved that horrified Noan. In fact, if one has ever witnessed such a scene, they will know that the flames spread steadily, almost with with a mocking slowness.
It was the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to stop the impending explosion that made him flee.
Acting on pure instinct, Noan turned tail and started to run. Then, he stopped in his tracks.
Jocasta was standing rooted to the ground, staring into the flames. Paralyzed in fear.
Noan grabbed Jocasta's hand. They ran as hard as their legs would carry them, into the still chaotic streets. They ran past the clueless mob. They ran past motionless bodies on the floor. They ran past flaming buildings which slowly crumbling into ash.
They ran with all their might, somehow managing to stay upright as the flames devoured their target in the oil extraction plant.
They did not look back until the scorching on their skin had subsided.
The last of the survivors deserted the decrepit town in a matter of days. It no longer had anything to offer them, and was certainly not worth the trouble of rebuilding.
Noan stared blankly into the distance, as the sun settled into the horizon. On the canvas of his vision, the silhouettes of the ones he had once considered his closest friends grew smaller and smaller. Eventually, they vanished.
Jocasta stood silently beside him. Then, she reached out and took his hand.
"It's alright Noan." Her voice wavered, as she struggled to conceal her emotion.
"We can go back to the start." Her voice was steadier now. She tugged questioningly at Noan's hand.
"We can go back to the start."
Noan could not help but notice how amazing it was that the very same sentence - uttered with the gentle determination of acceptance - sounded so vastly different.
