Again, she woke up to a quiet world. As she lay in her bed—its rough mattress feeling like maggots digging and biting into her back—she stared at the ceiling with concentrated eyes, trying to remember the sounds of the small canary that would come by her window every morning. It would chirp its song, prancing and hopping happily along the windowpane, its yellow feathers matching the intensity of the yellow sun, before finally flying off after it had absorbed all the warmth it possibly could.
She had missed its inherent calming effect: the sense that she was where she was supposed to be. Something that greeted her in the morning each day, she supposed. After a minute of ceiling watching, it slowly began to come back to her. It began in modest, evenly spaced high-pitched chirps, like the prologue of some kind of mystical tale; and then, almost as if to surprise the listeners, it would begin singing at a rapid pace, wavering between medium and high notes in a jarring yet peaceful melody, and then it would finally slow into low, modest chirps, right before its departure.
Of course, no such bird was anywhere to be found now. Her memory had served her well over the last year, and it was with great effort that she tried to bring her memory out into the real world—to somehow craft the canary outside her window once more… of course, to no avail.
Growing tired of the horrible sensations on her back (which now steadily spread to other limbs as her body became more awake), she rose from her deformed bed, which squeaked in misery from being robbed of the pleasure of engulfing the girl’s frame. Turning around, she was able to see clearly the outline of her own body pressed deeply into the foam. It slowly began to expand, trying desperately to return to its original state.
It had gotten brighter. She could tell. Only yesterday, it had been nearing the brink of filling the entire room with its never-ending light. Now, it had filled every crevice, every dark corner, with its white glare. It was as if the entire room had been illuminated by some divine highlighter.
She wandered toward her window, certain that the only thing protecting her eyes from blindness was the window shades, their rectangular bodies only lightly dulling the continuously shining spectacle.
She knew she wasn’t supposed to look directly at it, for doing so risked certain consequences—if not blindness, then other pains and torments. However, the tightness in her chest could not be eased without doing so. And thus, cautiously, like a small mouse sneaking behind a snake or feline in pursuit of nearby fruit, she tiptoed to the window shade. She braced herself, squinted, and with one shaky finger drew down a single vane. Immediately, her pupils filled with a light so horrible and intense that she fell onto her back, writhing and biting her lip in pain, trying not to make a sound. She covered her eyes with her hands, hoping the pain would quickly subside and careful not to irritate them further. It took a solid minute for her eyes to stop burning. With shaky hands, she removed her improvised eyepatches. Her eyes fluttered. Her vision was a bit glassy, but otherwise she seemed fine.
After the pain had subsided and her breathing had slowed, a wave of dread suddenly overcame her. It had grown. She was certain of it. It had grown horribly fast since the last time she had dared to lay her eyes on it. It now filled nearly half of the sky, its white beams seeming to wiggle up and down as they strayed from the center, like a pinwheel. Unlike a pinwheel—a colorful toy brimming with childhood memories—the spectacle was like a cruel god, punishing all life for its mere existence.
Perhaps because she had noticed the spectacle’s increase in size, she only now realized that it had become warmer as well. The crook between her forearm and bicep, which was usually spared from becoming damp with sweat, had now dampened the corresponding area of her drooping T-shirt. She had gotten used to the discomfort of her sweat; however, she could not help but feel a sickness whirling up in her stomach. She ignored it.
After taking off her t-shirt (it felt even more damp in her own hands), she hung it on a hanger in her closet and went to retrieve a less damp replacement, also finding a pair of shorts (cotton, also damp) to wear, since she had not been wearing any. As much as she would like to sleep bare, she didn’t like the feeling of vulnerability it gave her, and thus avoided doing so.
As she wearily changed, she observed with squinted eyes as the light from the spectacle pierced her malnourished skin. Her arms, very vascular from lack of fat intake, seemed almost to wither under their warmth. Her heart began to beat with increasing intensity, but she quickly calmed herself. It would only serve to exhaust her more.
She had a theory. If the spectacle finished expanding, she was confident—extremely so—that it would kill every living being on the planet by burning them to death. Not by heat alone. As she studied the way her skin seemed to squirm and attempt to hide away from its rays… it was almost as if the light had some special property, one that sucked away the life force of living organisms.
However, she was not sure of such a thing, and because of how hopeless those thoughts made her feel, she quickly got them out of her head.
Suddenly aware of how much time she had wasted, she quickened her pace, the sound of her heavy steps against the ragged carpet seeming like it was the only sound in the entire world.
As she opened her bedroom door (which screamed in aged agony), she was instantly greeted with numerous nausea-inducing odors, which made her gag involuntarily. A burning sensation filled her nose and airways, and she covered her mouth to try and stifle her coughs and gags. Finally, her convulsions came to an end, and it was with watering eyes that she traversed through the hallway, occasionally bumping against the wall or tripping over her own feet.
As her eyes cleared, she became aware of how bright the hallway was as well. It too shone an oppressive white. She clenched her teeth, the sickness having risen to the very end of her throat. With a weary swallow she managed to keep it down, and after managing to keep herself from collapsing, she continued on.
It was with great effort that she staggered into the living room, stumbling into the splinter-laden walls and tripping over her own feet on the way there. There, the smell was strongest, but having already faced a weaker onslaught of stench moments before, it did not affect her as much this time around.
From what she could remember, her living room had not always been as dejected as it was now. She remembered: it was of modest size, commonplace and to be expected in a neighborhood such as theirs. The carpet was a calming light gray, and, with beautiful brown couches to match, the room gave off a cozy feeling. The walls were clean, smelling of drywall and wallpaper, like the local library that she used to visit when she was younger, which had such a horribly addictive smell that she would return every other day just to bask in its scent. Pacing lazily from corner to corner, inspecting the hands and feet of her unrelated family members, old Julia would shakily stumble along the freshly cleaned rug as she absent-mindedly watched television, her black and brown signature Doberman fur occasionally sticking to the rug, much to the dismay of her parents.
As many things do in the inevitable future, the warm and comforting feeling that such a lively place once gave off was no longer present. The couches had become beaten and worn artifacts of what they once were, with bed bugs and dust mites chewing along in the never-ending process of decomposition. The carpet—now spoiled with stains that the rest of the area also shared—had grown wrinkled and torn, filled with silverfish and moths that would greedily chew at its flesh. The walls now reeked of fungus, and the damp wallpaper had already begun to collapse on itself. The television and the dog were long gone (sold, most likely), though small bits and pieces of Doberman fur still clung to the carpet.
She remembered these minute details not out of love for the sport (nor for their comforting past), but rather to merely distract her brain from the future to come. It was such a ritual-like, nearly inescapable future that she could never avoid without harsh consequence. And thus—like trying to gaze upon a singular flower amongst its brothers in a flowerbed—one would inevitably begin to stray towards the others.
“…I have to greet mother,” she said as if some phantom was controlling her words—shivery and cold vibrations being sent down her spine. Immediately after, now controlling her body, the phantom began to direct her to her immediate left, her body violently shaking in a futile attempt at protest.
As soon as she had been directed towards her left, she was able to make out the horrible form of her mother. Moving closer to the invisible line which separated the living room from the dining room, she was able to make out the finer details of her state. Her once blond hair, now a darker, more abnormal shade of dark yellow, lay lifelessly on the dining table, a few strands determined not to depart far from their creator by sticking to her shoulders. Like worms in the blazing sun, they seemed to try and squirm and wiggle away from what was causing them so much discomfort, but—also like worms in the sun—they could not escape from something that was present everywhere they went, and were left to suffer a futile, pointless battle.
Her skin, which used to have a flourishing, envy-bringing deep color to it, was now pale and anemic. It seemed only a while ago when her mother would often get compliments and praises for having such beautiful pink skin—and, while smiling full of pride, she would graciously accept people’s requests to caress the underside of her arm and around the back of her neck, after which they would all say with immense vigor “Wow! Such soft skin! Do you use any kind of lotion…?”
Such praise would be impossible in the form that her skin was now. To the touch (judging from the last time that she had dared to get close enough to the point where she could touch her skin) her skin was now reptilic and cold, as if she was touching a days-old corpse. Oftentimes, when Kate came into contact with her mother, she felt as though with even the slightest bit of resistance from Kate, she would be able to puncture her fragile skin as though it had been sculpted by damp clay.
“…Good morning, mother…” she mumbled with quivering lips as she stood at the other side of the table, her shaky eyes downcast. In her peripheral vision, she could see a small movement from her mother; the slight sound of rustling reverberating in the soundless hallway. Her mother, panting heavily from merely lifting her head up, slowly raised her arms from her sides and crossed them before her on the table, and then with a dramatic movement of relief, rested her head upon them.
Before her mother could muster up the energy to look at her, she quickly fixed her appearance, looking up at her mother with blurry eyes as she cupped her hands in front of her torso. With great strain, she forced the corners of her mouth to form an anxious smile, the bridge of her nose transporting sweat from her forehead all the way to her dry mouth.
After a beat, her mother, groaning as if she had just been punctured in her abdomen, opened her heavy eyelids and revealed her sharp gray eyes. The sight alone was enough to send her daughter into a panic.
“…Kate…” she mumbled after a breath, her voice rough and haggard. “Breakfast…”
“Y—” she stopped herself. “Yes, ma’am…”
Finally having an excuse to leave the vicinity of her mother, Kate quickly left the dining room and continued to her right, where the kitchen was. The metals and steel of the stove and fridge shone brightly in her eyes as she approached, causing her to flinch before she quickly blocked her face with her hands. As she adjusted to where the bright reflections were coming from, she settled on looking slightly downward towards the creaky wood-tiled floor, catching quick glimpses of insects wriggling in and out of the cracks and openings of the floor, startled to see such a giant suddenly enter their domain.
Opening the fridge (which had proved to be a great task for she had to search for the handle without blinding herself in the process), she was blasted with the horrid smell of biological processes en masse. Her stomach already wavering on the brink of expulsion, she could not take such sudden outbursts of vicious sensory treatment any longer, and, covering her mouth tightly to prevent herself from spilling over the floor, she hurried to the sink. With one swift movement she vomited into the drain, and thick bile stormed into the middle of the sink as if it was being sucked in by a typhoon.
“Ugh…” she groaned as she held her head to try and regain her bearings, her vision fading in and out as she now took in the newfound smell of her insides. After her hot tears had dried up, she was now able to see that despite most of her vomit escaping down the drain, there were still some splotches of the vile substance still hanging around the sides and corners of the sink. If her mother were to see such a mess…
Though she was still nauseous, the threat of punishment far outweighed the threat of vomiting again, and with great disgust she used her hand to scoop all the remaining matter into the drain, into which it slowly slid down the sides of the entrance until it landed at the bottom with a resolute ‘glop’.
Still, one issue remained. There was still a sizable amount of vomit on her hand. She couldn’t wipe it off anywhere, for they had used up the last of their paper towels and toilet paper long ago. She couldn’t wash it off because only so much water could be dispersed from the faucet per day, and if her mother were to find that their daily reserve had been wasted, she was sure to be angry. She couldn’t wipe it on her clothes, for if she were to return to her mother smelling foul, she was sure to be angry.
As she thought about what routes she could take, she heard another rustle coming from the dining table. She was taking too long, and her mother was starting to become restless. In a moment of desperation, she quickly lapped up the vomit from her hand and swallowed it, the coarseness of her insides re-greeting her with strong convulsions as she tried not to hurl again. Panting, with a tight grip on the counter, she had somehow managed to calm herself, and with a final, resolute swallow, she managed to clean up her mess while avoiding making another one.
Fighting off her dizziness, she again wandered to the fridge, covering her nose and mouth with her hands. From inside she quickly reached for the first thing she set her eyes upon: a nearly empty bag of bread. With the haste of the distressed, she fished it from among the insects that surrounded it and nearly threw it across the room as she swung the door shut. Thankful that she had managed to find something edible, she let out a sigh of relief as she peered into the bag.
There were three slices of bread left. They seemed to be on the brink of expiry, for their flesh was beginning to sag and their skin had started to become stale. Today was the last day they could be used without hazards.
With that in mind, she took out the three pieces—two for her mother, one for herself—holding them softly in her hands as she balled up the plastic bag they were in and stuffed it in her pocket.
On the stove, along with the crumbs and scraps of previous meals, there was a lone frying pan. She grabbed its handle and spun it around comfortably so it wouldn’t get in her way, then set the knob for the burner that it sat above to medium. She placed the slices of bread evenly on the pan and then returned to the cabinets, her hands scrambling frantically (though with extreme caution as to the amount of noise she made) through them.
“Jam… jam…” she mumbled as she searched. Finally, at the very back of the cabinets, she found a somehow melancholy, lone glass jar of strawberry jam. Her arms now beginning to ache, she grabbed it with shaky hands and set it on the counter.
By that point, the toast was already done. She walked over to the fridge, and, standing on her toes, she grabbed two paper plates. She shook them off, then, grabbing the handle of the pan, dumped two pieces of toast onto one plate and one piece of toast on another. She opened a drawer and withdrew a stain-covered knife. After opening the jar of jam, she scraped up what was left of the jam and plastered it copiously on the two pieces of bread and used whatever was left on her own piece. She carefully put the empty jar in the trash. She would have to go to the store later.
“M-mother…!” she called out in a silverish voice. “Break… breakfast is done…”
She waited for a response. There was none.
She returned to the dining room, her mother still resting her head sideways on the table, her listless eyes looking at nothing as her daughter approached her. With tingling fingertips, Kate set both plates onto the table, the plate with two pieces of toast for her mother, and the other for her. The plates were arranged so that they could sit across from each other and eat.
Despite that, Kate waited. Her legs shook with terrible anticipation. Her mother stirred. Her eyes drifted slowly to the plate of toast that lay in front of her. Without blinking, she gazed at it.
Kate was never able to truly tell what thoughts ran through her mother’s head, and it drove her mad. There was one thing she knew for certain, however: her mother had never once loved her daughter. Even when she would smile, give her gifts, joke with her, enjoy games with her; she had always known that the kindness that she showed was not genuine. Kate could tell from the way she looked at her. There was no cheerful gleam in her eye like her father when she interacted with her, instead there were dull, pitch-black pits in her pupils, void of any emotion that could be described as love and compassion. Despite knowing this, Kate, like her mother, never expressed her true feelings about their relationship for the sake of peace within the family.
That had all changed when the spectacle appeared.
Its overbearing presence had a negative impact on everyone, but it affected her father the worst. It drove him to such insanity that he had frequent nightmares and visions; waking up during the night (which was then somewhat differentiable from the morning) screaming absurdities such as “I’m terrible! I’m terrible!” and “I deserve this! I deserve this!” and other phrases vaguely following the pattern of being associated with guilt, which Kate believed to be the ultimate cause of his suicide. She remembered that Saturday morning well. Her mother had instructed her to wake her father. She entered the room with respectful hesitation and called for him. He had left the bed, it seemed, and through the slivers of a closed bathroom door she could see light. Naturally, she approached it.
“Dad…?” she called out as she rapped on the door with the back of her knuckle. There was no answer. Again, she knocked. Again, there was no response.
“I-I’m coming in…” she announced sheepishly as she reached out for the doorknob. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but to her surprise it was unlocked. So horridly unlocked in fact that it only took the lightest push from her fingertips for the door to creak slowly open. It was then that she saw him on the toilet, head leaning limply against the sink, blood spilling from his throat and wrist ominously as the knife that was gripped in his hands slipped from his fingertips finally and clattered on the floor, ringing in Kate’s ears as though it was a funeral bell.
To her own surprise, at the time, she didn’t make a sound. Not a scream, not a whimper, not a breath. From what she could remember she wasn’t even sure if she had made any particular face of horror or surprise. She remembered very clearly, though, going back to her mother that morning and saying, in her usual quiet and listless tone, “Dad… is dead.”
Another movement from her mother stole her from her trance. With bony fingers she picked up the piece of toast and lazily brought it to her mouth. She ate. Kate was safe for another morning.
Kate herself ate along with her, timing her bites carefully and precisely so that she didn’t take a bite before or at the same time as her mother. She ate slowly and with small, mouse-like nibbles. Her mother finished long before her and, with a light sigh, began to close her eyes.
Kate continued eating, even more quietly than before. Over the course of the past year, there was something she had noticed about her mother. When she would drift off to sleep, her breathing pattern would follow a strange 1-1-2-3-1 melody. One breath, one breath, two short breaths, three quick breaths, one breath. She listened patiently. 1-2-1-1-1. 2-1-1-2-3. 2-2-3-1-1.
1-1-2-3-1.
She was asleep.
Kate quickly scarfed down the rest of her toast, and with fox-like caution removed herself from the table. Not a stir came from her mother. She tiptoed towards the front door, which to her surprise had been left slightly ajar. Her ghastly fingertips wrapped themselves around the door handle, and with a quick pull she threw the door ajar, stopping it just in time to prevent it from hitting the wall. She walked outside, still tiptoeing, and quietly shut the door behind her. She stood on her porch, her head cast downward so as to avoid the blinding glare of the spectacle. Her mother did not come after her.
She was free to do as she pleased.
But there was nothing that she was pleased with. There were no sounds, no motors or engines of passing vehicles, no giggles or giddy steps of students or business folk, no chirps or tweets of songbirds or their respective relatives. There were no colors, only a blinding white that seemed to reflect off of everything, which then reflected into everything, only to reflect off of everything again. She could hardly feel the sensation of her feet pressing weakly against the ground, all of her nerves unwillingly focusing on the dizzying heat of the spectacle that affected her ability to walk straight. Her dry throat ached for water, and there was an increasingly painful throb in her head.
She was headed to the supermarket. She had fond memories of how close it was to her home; approximately a three-minute drive and a modest fifteen-minute walk. On weekends, she would often walk with her father to pick up some snacks, just for the sake of it. She enjoyed those walks; the shrill breeze sounding homelike in her ears, complementing the warm rays of the yellow sun. No longer would she ever be able to experience such a comfortable feeling.
She knew not how long she had managed to drag her feet, but when she snapped out of her daze, she found herself in the market. It had a foul stench of rotten produce, like vinegar. All the shelves, which were now scattered and pushed out of place, held nothing resembling bountiful food items or groceries; the only similar things were scraps and occasional half-empty bags and boxes thrown hastily on the floor. Dust and residue polluted the air, the harsh glare of the spectacle seeming to showcase their presence. With each uneasy breath they would draw to her mouth, and with each uneasy exhale they would jet away in every direction until they again settled comfortably in the air. The faint sound of electricity humming through the dim lights and slowly turning ceiling fans reverberated throughout the market and slammed terribly against Kate’s ears. She grew dizzy and decided in an instant that she would grab what she could find and get out as soon as possible.
She hastily skittered from aisle to aisle, her vision hazy with a throb in her head. She looked around frantically, her pupils latching onto anything that might be brave enough to even show the slightest bit of shape in her peripheral. Tortilla chips? She reached for the bag. Empty save for crumbs. Paper towel? Just the tube. Beef? Rotten.
Over the course of five minutes, she had found two things: A bag of wheat bagels, about a fourth of the bag empty, and a miraculously untampered-with container of cream cheese. On the verge of vomiting, she decided that this would have to do for the next week.
She turned. Suddenly, so suddenly that in an instant her heart seemed to drop to the bottom of her stomach, a clamor sounded behind her. Unwillingly, in a blind rage of terrible instinct, her head snapped around. On the floor, jumping up and down in a never-ending frenzy, was an empty aluminum can, its quivering frame so disorienting that it made Kate herself stumble over her own feet. In one instant she lost her balance, and in another instant, she was on the ground. The impact affected her frail body so much that she began screaming in agonizing pain, clutching at her weary joints which felt as if they were bound to pop out of place. The clattering of the can went on, like a siren in Kate’s disheveled head, until it finally stopped with a final resolute clamor. She was stunned; she felt the world slowly warping around her, shelves becoming long stretches of white and gray string, the floor beneath her turning into a sinking hole, the ceiling lights above glaring tauntingly into Kate’s glassy eyes.
She heard light taps, maybe only a few yards away from her. They slowed, then stopped. Increased steadily, in rhythmic, slow paces, then stopped completely again. They were comparable to the incessant beating of drums. Whirling around her fragile mind like butterflies. The sound grew louder, more distinct, as time passed. They were drawing near.
Panicked, she scrambled. She flipped from her side to her back, doing bicycle kicks as her body flailed wildly, and jumped up from the floor like a cockroach trying to flip itself back upright, and readied her legs to run.
“Wait!” a quivering voice called, sounding like a worn trumpet. “Wait! Please, wait…!”
Kate had no idea. Kate had no idea that there were others besides her and her mother. Thinking about it—in those quick few moments—it was unreasonable to think that somehow, miraculously, they had been the only ones left in a quiet world. Somehow, the fact comforted her. And yet she still ran.
There was a clatter behind her. “Stop! Wait! Please!” they called out again, this time in a more grotesque, desperate voice. “Please! Hold on!”
Kate did not stop. The doors were only a few paces away. Her lungs were already burning with exhaustion, the walls of her dehydrated throat feeling as if they were made of frail glass, ready to crack and fall apart at any opportunity. Her muscles and tendons ached and cried out with shocks of pain swimming throughout her entire body. Regardless, she pushed on, panic in the back of her head fueling her to rush away. The doors grew close, and suddenly she felt something round and metallic roll under her foot. Her feet were no longer slamming against the tiled floors. She saw her own feet, her shoes torn and the soles loose, floating in the air, the radiance of the spectacle burning her eyes as everything fell around her.
Her eyes flew open. Out of reflex, she brought her hands up to shield them from the light of the spectacle. However, instead of being met with the red illumination of her hands, she found darkness. Not total darkness, for slight rays of light still seeped through the gaps in her fingers, but for the first time in so long, she found darkness. There was a tremor in her vision, as if her eyes were pulling in and out of her head. There were sparkles, stars, shapes and vague colors that she tried to focus on but could not quite make out. There was no pounding in her head, her eyes did not ache or make tears, her body didn’t feel weak. She was peaceful.
She heard a gasp from behind her, which in turn caused her to quickly rise to her feet and let out an airy shriek. She ran, only to find herself slamming face-first into a wall, knocking her onto her back again. Tears came to her eyes as she whimpered, holding her ribcage tightly in a simple attempt to suppress the pain.
“A-are you okay, miss…?” a frail, childish voice called out to her. Her eyes immediately opened, and her vision crystalline beyond what she thought possible, she looked up at the face that looked down at her.
She hadn’t seen another person other than her mother in so long that she thought she was looking upon a spirit. It was a little girl, young, probably younger than ten. Her skin was pale, dreadfully pale, but so was Kate’s and her mother’s. She had brown eyes and shimmering black hair. She wasn’t skinny, like Kate, she seemed healthy, her body supported with muscle and stored fats alike. She looked at Kate with mysticism and worry, and her head slowly sank into her shoulders as she kept her distance. Kate stared at the girl for a long while, her mouth drifting open, words beginning to be articulated on the tip of her tongue.
“Yanis…?!” the girl cried suddenly, turning her head over her shoulder only slightly so that she could still inspect the girl on her floor. “Yanis! Come look!”
Hurried footsteps grew closer, and a small boy, younger still, peered at Kate from above. He looked at Kate with wonder. He whined. “He a girl!” he exclaimed excitedly. “He dirty…”
“She!” the girl cried, correcting him. “You say she! She! Dummy.”
“I’m not a dummy!” he pouted. “You dummy, Juliette! Jean! Jean! Juliette called me a dummy! He called me a dummy!”
“She! She! I am a girl!”
“You’re not a girl, you’re boy! You fart!”
“Everybody farts, stupid!”
“Jean!”
Kate had not seen another person besides her mother in what felt like an eternity, and the presence of the two children filled her head with such bewilderment that she began bawling.
“Look! You made her cry!” Juliette exclaimed, smacking Yanis on the head.
Yanis looked at her, stunned. His eyes bulged with betrayal, and with a slight whimper, burst into tears.
“Shut up!” Juliette screamed. “You’re both loud! Annoying!”
“What could you two possibly be whining about?” asked a stressed, familiar voice. Kate’s eyes shot open, and her neck snapped towards the source. She met a boy, around her age, with a soft face and skin like leather. His eyes were wide with concern, and the corners of his mouth warped into an awkward smile as he walked towards them. His hair, like the strands of a straw broom, swayed stiffly as he moved. Kate’s heart pounded in bewilderment.
“I’m sorry,” he began, bowing his head lightly. Instead of looking into Kate’s eyes, he settled for looking at the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t mean to startle you, back there. You had slipped on a can of noodles and hit your head. It was an impulsive decision to bring you into my house while you recovered. I apologize.”
“Jean was saying that over and over yesterday too!” Juliette exclaimed. “He was practicing!”
“Juliette! Not necessary!”
Juliette giggled, running elsewhere. Jean picked up the still-whining Yanis in his arms. “A-anyway! You’re free to go back to wherever you stay if you want. The door is down the stairs, down that hallway to your left.”
He made a quick gesture towards the hallway that Juliette had gone down, and Kate followed his finger down the hall. She could see the staircase clearly from where she was lying.
“But if you want to stay, I don’t mind,” he continued, much to Kate’s shock. “I haven’t seen another person in forever. I’m sure I’ll know your decision by the time I’m back.”
With the crying child in his arms, he went down the hall and into a room, shutting the door behind him. Kate stood on her feet and absorbed her surroundings. Like everything she saw, the room was so heavily saturated that there were only a few things that she could clearly make out, but one thing that stood out to her was the portrait on the wall, one of Jean, Juliette, Yanis, and two adults, all smiling as they posed professionally. It was a family portrait.
Kate’s heart was pounding, and her head spun terribly. Her clothes were damp with sweat, and she was so uncomfortable that she felt as if she was dying. Did she want to go home? She didn’t know the answer herself. Did she want to stay? Again, she didn’t know. She was so paralyzed with choices that her indecision made the choice for her.
The crying slowly faded, and after a minute, Jean had returned, sighing. Eyes closed, he walked right past Kate, and almost disappeared into another room.
“Hrgk—!” she grunted, and Jean spun around with alarm.
They both stared at each other with a mix of hesitancy and nervousness. Both sweated bullets.
“I’m…” Kate began, her voice so hoarse that one would assume she was bleeding from the neck. “I’m… still here…”
Jean continued to gaze upon her with bulging eyes before coming back to his senses. He seemed to be struck by lightning by how violently he jolted. “O-oh! Yes! Yeah, uh… That’s great! Really!”
He chuckled awkwardly. Kate turned her eyes towards the floor. It was not riddled with insects.
Jean noticed her silence and began scrambling towards her. “I-I’m sorry, I haven’t really—y’know—talked to anyone (besides those two) in a long time… It’s so strange outside, I guess I still haven’t adapted to all of it just yet, ha-ha…”
Kate remained silent, her heart beating against her chest so heavily that it could bring her to the floor.
Jean seemed to choke and grabbed a wooden chair that was placed in one of the corners and sat down across from the standing Kate. He looked at his lap and then at Kate, then stood in a panic and offered her the chair while he sat on the floor. Kate wobbled into the chair until she sat with a creak.
Silence settled between them again. The only sounds were their heavy breaths and the slow whir of the ceiling fan.
“…I’m sorry,” Jean said finally with downcast eyes. “I still don’t know how to approach a situation like this. It’s already enough that you’re the first person I’ve met in what seems like forever, and I’m sure it’s troubling for you too… I’m sorry for being so awkward…”
Kate’s throat croaked and wheezed. “I-it’s fine… I’m… happy too.”
Jean lifted his head up so quickly that it had startled Kate. “R-really?!” He inched forward as a small child would. “T-truth is, I’m so excited that I could burst. I’ve been dying to have someone to talk to. My younger siblings—as you could already tell—they aren’t particularly the best communicators…”
Kate let out a dry chuckle. “Y-yeah…”
“Do you have family, Kate?” Jean asked suddenly, with a strange amount of enthusiasm that didn’t match his sheepish attitude only moments before. It was because of this that Kate was taken aback, and she lifted her head to meet Jean’s brown eyes.
“Do I have… family?” Kate repeated with dry lips.
“Yes. Do you have family?”
Her eyes darted around the room. “No, I don’t have family…”
“Oh…” Jean said solemnly. “I’m sorry for asking…”
Again, it was silent.
“…I have my stepmother,” Kate began, much to the surprise of Jean. “But… I don’t consider her family.”
“I’m sorry,” Jean said again, twirling his thumbs. “I lost my parents to heat stroke, but I still have my two blood siblings. I don’t know what I would do without them. As much as they may get on my nerves, they are honestly my only motivation for living, y’know? I feel like everyone, no matter how well off they are, must grab onto something to keep going. Maybe it’s just me. Regardless, I love them with my life.”
Kate’s eyes widened. Everyone must grab onto something to keep going? She could imagine such a thing being true. She had heard plenty of scenarios where someone had lost something dear to them, and it was enough to ruin their entire lives, one way or another. She remembered hearing one of her middle school friends saying that if music didn’t work out for her, then she might just give up on life entirely. Though, if such a concept was true, then why was she here herself?
“Though,” Jean continued, snapping Kate out of her trance. “I believe that thing in the sky, whatever it may be, has something to do with the sudden disappearance of everyone. Let me tell you something, Kate. When my parents died, it was around two months after the… the…”
“The spectacle. That’s… what I like to call it.”
“…The spectacle, huh? Well, it was around two months after the spectacle had been introduced to the world. I remember, I remember well. It was small at first, just smaller than the moon. Everyone thought it was a miracle, or some kind of divine symbol. People swore all over the globe that if you were to wish upon it, it would grant whatever you asked for. Around a few weeks after its first appearance, scientists had discerned that it was neither a star nor a comet, but rather light. Pure light. No energy at all. Merely light and heat. But not a star. They tried photographing it, like they did the sun. But they were met with such a terrible glare that you would have thought they just took an up-close picture of a lightbulb. I read the articles; “something that could debunk all of our theories of the stars and planets”, was written in one. These questions only grew as the… spectacle did. A month had passed, and overnight, as if it changed clothes while nobody was watching, it grew quadruple its size. A global program was released only a few days after, asking everyone and anyone if they were able to see how it had changed. Of course, there were some who claimed that it had suddenly enlarged, as if it was bloated, or it had disappeared for a second or two and came back even bigger, but none made sense. There were things that they had noticed, though: that the spectacle was bigger, and that it was brighter. People had claimed that it was warmer, a lot warmer, but thermometers showed no hint of anything changing. Glaciers melted as quickly as they did the day before, and things burned and froze all the same. It was concerning, especially now that it outshined the moon, but it didn’t seem to have a gravitational pull, and was only a real nuisance for eastern countries, because it was so bright. But otherwise, people continued to admire and praise it as usual. Another month passed. Again, it grew. Not four times in size, like it had when it first grew, but it grew. It was now like having a second sun. Again, people all over the world reported higher temperatures, and during the nights it was as if it were dawn. They did experiments on animals, to see if they experienced the same discomfort. Indeed, they did. Then they moved to other organic organisms. Bugs, plants, sea creatures… all of which had higher body temperatures. Non-living things, however, experienced no change at all. They placed an ice cube in the hand of someone, and placed one on a temperature-controlled table, set to the temperature the subject’s body was. They both should have melted equally fast, but it was found that the ice cube on the table melted far faster than the one in the subject’s palm. Again and again the outcome was clear; the subject’s heightened temperature seemed to have no effect on anything around them, and the ice cube melted as if it were being held at normal temperature. As I’m sure you understand, the months keep passing, and the spectacle kept growing, and the temperature of all living things increased, and now here we are. But here’s the interesting part.
“My parents died within the first three months,” he said solemnly; his movements grew slow for a moment. “They died of heat stroke, as I told you. The interesting thing is that they died and that was it. All body, all bones. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Kate looked at him with a raised eyebrow, her head whirring. “N… no. I don’t understand… doesn’t everyone… die with their whole body?”
Jean gazed at her for a moment, like a dumbfounded child who couldn’t understand the big words that their guardian was spewing. “…Huh? What do you mean? Do you… not know?”
She grew fidgety, and leaned forward in her chair, too. “D-do I know about what…?”
“I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” Jean mumbled in a whisper. “People, now, when all their life force is taken up, they disappear. I don’t know how to explain it. Only a few weeks ago, I had seen a small animal, probably a mouse, lying underneath one of the city benches. It was struggling to breathe, and I watched the exact moment it took its last breath. I was going to continue getting food for my siblings, but as I turned around to look at it again, it was gone. It had vanished completely. Not a trace of the poor thing left.”
Kate leaned back. “…Gone? Entirely?”
“Yes,” he replied with a nod, leaning back. “You don’t know how fast I leaped under that bench. I got on all fours and scraped the floor, looking for any sort of remains at all, but found nothing.”
Kate shivered. “W-what are you trying to say…?”
“I have a belief,” Jean continued, “that the thing in the sky, the spectacle, drains life force from living creatures. For what purpose, I don’t know, but it’s as though our energy is being drained from us mercilessly. You’ve felt it too, right? This feeling of weakness.”
Kate had felt it; in fact, she knew the exact feeling that he was describing.
“It’s like I’m suffocating…” Kate murmured without thought.
“Right? When I came up with that theory, I wondered, ‘Then why am I still here?'”
She fidgeted. “Did you… find an answer to that question…?”
“No…” he said, sighing. “Honestly, I don’t like thinking about it. It’s very depressing.”
Kate made an understanding hum.
“B-but beyond all of that, let’s talk about something else. Man, there is just so much for me to say! Like how…”
Even though Jean didn’t do too much but blabber, Kate really didn’t mind the things he would spew, even though she wasn’t all too sure how to respond to them. Before either of them knew it, it was already late in the evening, and neither of them would have known a thing if they didn’t feel the slightest drop in temperature.
Kate shivered as if it was freezing. “O-oh! It’s evening!”
Jean quickly stood, a troubled look on his face as he bit his lip. “…It is. Are you supposed to be home by now…?”
“Yes! Mother is going to kill me…”
“Q-quick! The door is that way! Go! Go!”
Kate had never run so fast in her life. Through all her years, not once had she come home past curfew. Her joints ground against one another like rusting metal, and tears flowed violently from her eyes with each step. But none of that mattered to her.
“I need to get home… I need to get home…” she murmured with a weary throat.
Finally, she had made her way back home, her legs on the verge of giving out the moment she passed through the door. Despite her exertion, she still tried her best to remain as quiet as possible, and she leaned on the walls with wobbling steps as she walked towards the living room. She slowly poked her head around the corner, watching closely as her mother breathed. Her head was flat on the table, and she seemed to be asleep.
Kate heaved a heavy sigh and relaxed herself. She slowly trotted past, careful not to wake her mother.
“Where have you been?”
Kate turned to stone. Her body could no longer handle all her sensations, and as if she was a crumbling statue, she began to shake violently. With tense steps, she turned around to face her stepmother. She was standing.
“…I… I went… to get… get groceries…”
Her mother’s eyes robotically shifted from Kate’s eyes to her hands. “…Then where are they?”
Kate’s heart drummed in her chest. She could’ve sworn that one of her ribs cracked, and she failed to stifle a whimper.
“…I’m sorry…” she replied as she clutched her shirt. “…I… couldn’t find anything…”
Her mother’s eyes shifted back to Kate’s own. She didn’t look into them, Kate felt, but rather at them, as if she was looking into the pupils of a stuffed doll. She mumbled something.
“…P-please… repeat that?”
“You make me sick… You make me sick!”
Kate’s mother was normally a very sluggish woman. For days at a time, she would lay at the same spot—the dining room table—and only, if necessary, would she give herself the trouble of standing, walking, or even speaking. However, sometimes, she would have bursts of energy unlike any Kate had ever seen.
She couldn’t have blinked before her mother landed her fist on her nose. Like everyone else, her mother’s bones were fragile, but Kate’s body was equally fragile—and like glass to glass—both shattered. Kate’s face caved like water, and her mother’s ligaments and tendons were torn like paper. Despite that, she continued to land punch after slap after hit on her daughter.
“I’m s-sorry…!” cried Kate meekly as she collapsed under her mother. “P-please…!”
Her body had already been worn from the sprint home, and she had little endurance left. Even pumped with adrenaline, her breathing doubled, and her body was still no match for the strength of her mother. As skin touched skin and sweat mixed with sweat, Kate felt that the spectacle had grown immensely during their scuffle. Or maybe her body was merely overheating from trying to withstand the blows and not pass out, let alone die. Regardless, Kate had no clue, and with bruises and tears in her eyes she helped her mother swallow a collection of pills before Kate fell unconscious on her mattress.
It was a strange thing. Normally, whenever Kate would suffer her mother’s spontaneous punishments, she would have no desire whatsoever to even dream of leaving the home. Those days, she could hardly get out of bed. Though, now it was different. Kate had an immense desire to see Jean. So immense and unwavering that she thought her heart would pound out of her chest. She crept out of her room soundlessly and went to see her mother. Again, she was unconscious on the kitchen table. Normally, she would make breakfast. She did not make breakfast. With careful breaths and movements, she left her mother on the table without guilt or worry. She wanted to see Jean. Oddly enough, she believed that Jean wanted to see her too. There was some kind of apparent rush; an idea and fixation that she needed to get to him as soon as possible. Maybe it was because of the spectacle’s constantly growing heat. Maybe it was because she was in a state of delusion from her pains and agonies. Whatever the reason, she had to be quick.
Not that there was much room for quickness, however. She moved quite slowly; though it was only natural. The strain on her body was too powerful even for her will, and yet she panted and hacked as if she was running. In truth, she was dragging her feet. What was worse was that she had no clue where to go.
It’s strange. She had no clue where to go, and yet she found herself at the supermarket.
It was different. Dreamlike. It was as though she was in an alternate reality. There was no clutter of cans, there were no wails of “Wait! Wait!”, there was no goal of food… There was no Jean. When she realized this, she began to grow dizzy, and a deep sickness grew in her stomach. Tears flowed violently from her eyes and she bit her lips and clenched her abdomen. She vomited with terrible noises and gags, her vision quickly failing her. In the very next instant, she lost consciousness.
It was a long while before she woke up. She had dreams, dreams of being with Jean. Dreams of the idea that—when she woke up—she would be greeted by the faces of Jean, Juliette, and Yanis. She dreamed that they would make their clumsy and sympathetic statements as she had observed before, and that together they would drink apple juice and enjoy talks of trivial subjects. They would play games, tell each other stories, and feel the warmth of a friendly love.
She awoke. She quickly sat up, and simply opened her eyes. However, she was met with the fierce light of the spectacle. There was no Jean. Even if there was, she wouldn’t have been able to see him. As soon as she was faced with the spectacle’s burning light, her eyes shut tightly in reflex. There was an ache in her chest, and—for a moment—she felt as though the world was crumbling around her. There was a terrible burning pressure in her eyes, and she immediately felt that if she were to cry now… she might die right on the spot.
“Kate…?” a voice called. It was a familiar voice. She knew it was familiar because it had been engraved in her head so violently and persistently that there was nothing in the entirety of the universe that could remove it. Her heart pounded and quivered furiously. Though her instinct and subconscious reason told her that her eyes needed to stay closed, in that very moment there was not a single thing she could do besides open them. It began with her left. Then the right one slowly followed… Of course, they burned. She didn’t care—one could even say that she could hardly notice. The only thing she was concerned about was seeing if something was true; if something was really there…
She looked. She saw. Jean, with his usual frivolous and caring expression, was looking at her with genuine concern and worry. Kate had no doubt in her mind that she was looking particularly disgusting at this very moment. She was certain that somewhere, perhaps around her side or otherwise, was a pool of vomit. Only adding to the grotesqueness of the situation, she was aware that she more than likely had bruises across her face and arms, which only served to disfigure her already pale and nearly transparent body. But there was no disgust on Jean’s face. Not a twinge of the lips, a raised eyebrow, a scrunch of the face… in the very next moment he was by her side, touching her face as though it was dirty. “Are you hurt…? What happened to you…? You have bruises… did you collapse here…? Don’t tell me… somebody did this to you?”
She didn’t know how to react. And since she didn’t know how to react, she merely cried… It was terrible. The tears were so painful and heavy that it was comparable to a kind of acid, and, in a weird sort of paradox, the pain only made her cry even more. Jean also didn’t know how to react, and so he merely held her with quivering arms and tried to reassure her… it would be a long while before either of them moved; and it would be a longer while before Kate had built up enough energy to walk… It was at least two hours before Jean had managed to bring Kate to his home. He treated her to what seemed to be a half-cup of water, and sat her down on a metal chair; the foldable kind that Kate hadn’t seen in a long time.
“The kids…” Jean began with his arms crossed and his eyes downturned, “are sleeping right now… so they shouldn’t be able to bother you too much for the time being…”
There was a pause and then he chuckled awkwardly. Kate also chuckled awkwardly, which put a great strain on her throat and airways and the simple act nearly caused her to pass out. Jean offered her some food, presenting canned applesauce, canned tuna, or canned pineapple; Kate ultimately chose the applesauce, which she ate with her fingers in slow and periodic bursts.
Again they were alone. There was a thickness in the air, though not an awkward thickness. The two of them seemed to share so much familiarity in such a short amount of time, and it was because of that familiarity that, even despite the conditions, they could look each other in the eyes comfortably. It was through this that Kate noticed a detail about Jean. When he looked at her, the bags under his eyes seemed to relax.
“Kate… what happened to you?”
To Kate, this was an odd question to ask. It wasn’t a question that she could immediately provide an answer to, and that is exactly what made it odd. What exactly had happened to her? It was so regular and she was so disconnected from the experience that it felt like a blur. As with a paper cut or a scratch from metal, there was no particular emotion to those experiences anymore.
While she was thinking of this, Jean approached her. She hadn’t noticed that he had gotten this close to her until he was already right in her face. It terrified her. His eyes were scanning her face, her arms, her neck, with the occasional look into her eyes… he was obviously looking for something. It was nerve-wracking, but somehow Kate felt that she had to open herself up to him. She lifted up her neck and stretched out her arms, her lips quivering all the while. He was saying something—or at least seemed to be saying something. His lips moved, but no voice came out. She tried to read his lips… “three… four… five…”…he was counting something. What he was counting was its own mystery in itself; though that wasn’t something she was concerned about. Every time he said a new number, his eyes would drag to a new spot on her body. The entire thing was very exhilarating.
“Kate… do you hear me?” he said with sudden clarity, shocking Kate. She hastily answered with a quivering “Yes!”
“Do you… want to go somewhere? Yanis and Juliette are in a deep sleep… and I want you to see something. I feel like… it’d help you take your mind off of some things… It won’t take long (again he glanced around her body, and for some reason or another he was shaking), maybe only a few minutes…”
Kate didn’t know what to say, or rather she didn’t have much to say. There weren’t many other things that she could’ve said at that moment. She looked at him and saw something. Of course she saw Jean, but she saw something deeper; something more inspiring within Jean. So of course she’d say yes.
Jean didn’t plan to take her anywhere particularly far. In fact, he himself didn’t quite know where to take Kate. The two of them walked side by side for a while, but suddenly, as if it was something entirely natural, Jean’s right hand and Kate’s left hand became intertwined. It was awkward at first; neither of them had felt this kind of connection in a very long time. It was almost as though they had forgotten how to do it altogether. First, they clumsily tried locking their pinkies and index fingers together, which for obvious reasons would not work. Then they tried to wrap their thumbs in between the other’s middle and ring finger. This also did not work. They tried several other different ways to wrap their fingers around the other’s until they finally met at an equilibrium. They were holding hands as a child would with a parent. This seemed to be the most natural for both of them, and it was because of this that the two of them sank into an extreme sense of comfort that nearly paralyzed them both.
It was because of this comfort and serenity that they walked at an even slower pace than before. It was a long while before they stopped walking. Even when they did finally come to a halt they were not quite sure where they were. It wasn’t anywhere particularly foreign or magnificent. It was a bridge that overlooked what was probably a lake. Now, of course, there was no semblance of a “lake” to be found; only a dried-up crater in the ground empty of all life. Some vegetation remained, but even it was living its final moments. In said crater there were many lines and incisions reminiscent of flowing water streams. Adjacent to the entire thing were dried-up husks of what used to be trees. They were not given the mercy of rotting and giving back to their mother earth; instead they seemed to be mummified in some kind of evil way—and though they looked nothing like any tree Kate was able to remember, she was able to tell what they were and what they used to be. The thought alone gave her a shiver.
It stretched for a long while—an impossibly long while—until it eventually faded out of their field of vision. For some reason, Kate believed that if she looked at it long enough and with enough intention, she would find something. What that something was she herself didn’t know, but she hoped to find something. Anything. However, there was nothing to be found. The scene was the same the entire way.
“Do you remember the name of this river?” Jean asked in a low, near soulless tone. He shivered and shook, though Kate wasn’t sure if it was out of anger or if he was on the verge of tears. Either way, she answered with a resounding “No.”
He sighed. “Of. The river was given the name ‘Of’. An odd name, you would think. Do you know what my mother told me about this river? I was very young—maybe three or six years old—and yet I remember it all very well. She told me that her mother—my grandmother—had been murdered right here. She was out on errands; normal, casual business. She happened to cross this bridge when two men decided that they would attempt to rob her. It was broad daylight, and her screams of terror and calls for help quickly made the two men anxious, and it was in this anxiety that the two of them picked up the frail lady and threw her into the river. She drowned. The two turned themselves in the very next day.”
Kate didn’t know what to say.
“I have no clue as to why my mother decided to tell me this,” he said with a light chuckle. He went silent for a moment. “I wonder what made them do that.”
They looked at each other with shy eyes. It was obvious to both of them that there was a feeling welling deep inside both of them. They brought their sweaty and pale faces closer to each other. It was unbelievably hot, and the moisture of their heavy breaths settled like steam on their brows. There was a tension in the air, and the Spectacle somehow seemed to shine with a newfound elegance and grace. The humidity and heat were no longer a burden to the two of them. It no longer made them feel as if all was lost. The uncomfortable feeling they had only a moment ago had vanished, and it was with this confidence and security that the two of them shared a kiss. Kate’s lips were dry—but Jean’s in comparison were extraordinarily dry, and she found some solace in this for reasons that she didn’t know. Sweat from their foreheads dripped passionately down to their upper lips, which served as a lubricant for the two of them. It was with this terrible kiss that a burning sensation welled up within both of their hearts, and—the two of them unable to bear it anymore—they pulled away with such a quickness that Jean had accidentally bitten the top of Kate’s lip. Both of them knew about it, but neither of them had bothered to say anything. Instead, with hasty breath and bloodshot eyes, they gazed at each other. For twenty minutes they did this. Then, as though something had stabbed him in his back, Jean fidgeted with a burst of energy.
“A-ah! It’s late! Late…!” he murmured as his eyes darted from one place to another, seemingly with no aim. “I… uh, we! We have to get back! Back! The kids… the kids!”
Meanwhile, Kate was in such a hypnotic state that she wasn’t too aware of what was happening around her. She couldn’t believe what had happened mere seconds ago. Again, Jean grabbed her by the hand and pulled her with him. Everything was happening so fast—she was beginning to feel dizzy. Somehow, she could feel her stomach slowly turning with dread. A small—very small, might I add—part of her wanted to turn the other way and run. There was something terrible waiting for them; that is the feeling she had. However, this feeling was no more than that—a feeling. She had no energy or consciousness to be able to enact these subconscious emotions, and thus it was with tired feet that she was dragged away with Jean.
The spectacle was burning brighter by the second. She could feel its intensity double and triple with each passing step. She felt a desire to scream. To scream, to scream…
“Oh my God!” Jean cried so violently that Kate felt a rumbling in her body. “Yanis! Juliette! No! No! What could have happened…! No! No!”
He collapsed onto the floor, gripping at his hair. With his other hand he crawled towards the bodies of his younger siblings and touched them as though they were something foreign. “No! No! It’s not real! It’s not real!” he sobbed, his wails reverberating through the entire room.
Kate’s heart sank. She looked with dreamy eyes towards the bodies of Yanis and Juliette. The immense desire to scream was still there and still very present… and yet nothing came out. She covered her mouth with her hands, but it was too late—vomit spilled violently from her mouth. The two children were dead. The blood that spilled out of their bodies had long since dried, and they seemed to be husks of what they once were. Their skin and flesh were torn and mutilated in certain areas, mainly their trunks and legs. Some of their fingers were missing, and a large portion of what appeared to be Yanis’s face was missing. Juliette’s neck was twisted and definitely broken. For some odd reason, both of their tongues were missing. Their stomachs were scratched and cut, and if you were to look closely enough you could see their organs, which had suffered the least amount of damage. It all made Kate very sick, and it was from this sickness that she fell unconscious onto the floor.
She awoke with a sharp pain in her stomach. Jean was lying on top of her, unmoving and not breathing. Their disordered clothing and the blood on her made what had happened unmistakable. His entire body seemed tense, and he was frothing at the mouth. She pushed him away and sat up. The pain in her stomach sharpened, then reached her heart. Crying, she pulled herself together and, with one final look toward the three corpses, left the building vomiting nothing but saliva.
She did not know where to go from there. She walked slowly, very slowly. At times she was unsure whether she was walking at all. Visions of Yanis and Juliette flashed through her head, attacking her. Her stomach still hurt. It reminded her of Jean, and she cried. She thought she could forgive him, but even if she did, it would not change what he had done to her before dying. That fact alone made her cry even more.
She found herself back at the door to her home. She stood listening, still sobbing. There was no noise besides her own. With a quivering hand and shaky thoughts she opened the door. She walked, walked, walked… Eventually, she was met with her mother.
The two of them stared at each other. Kate was crying harder than ever before. Through her glossy vision she tried to perceive the face of the woman across from her. In her eyes she sensed some kind of wicked hopelessness. It was strange. Somehow, her mother seemed very sad.
“Kate… do you hate me?” she said suddenly, much to the surprise of Kate. Kate’s tears stopped. She looked at her mother’s face. There was no malice or any sense of violence or hatred. In fact, her mother began crying as well. The spectacle was still growing in intensity, and Kate felt that both of them could feel it. It attacked them constantly, giving them no time to think rationally. It was because of this that Kate answered this question with a quivering “No. I am… afraid of you.”
Her mother fell to her knees, and she began to wail. Her wails weren’t nearly as loud as Jean’s wails were. They were quiet, unbelievably quiet even. They could hardly be heard. She clutched at her heart, looking up at Kate with those solemn, sad eyes. Kate didn’t feel a need to cry, though she too fell to the floor, looking her mother in the face with an open mouth. No words flashed through her mind or came from her throat as she watched her mother shake and tremble. They looked into each other’s eyes as the spectacle shone down on the two of them.
“I’m sorry…” her mother mouthed. No sounds escaped her as she fell face first onto the floor, twitching. Kate watched her groan and fidget until eventually there was no movement left in her, and it was from that point that Kate was certain that her mother had died. She weakly stood from her knees and exited the home, breathing heavily.
Again she walked. The spectacle weighed heavily against her entire body, and she felt as though very soon she herself would die at the hands of something supernatural. She wondered if there was any point of walking at all, and yet she walked anyway. Now, she found herself at “Of.” She held onto the end railing and looked into the sky with her eyes wide open. There was no forcing herself to do this, she believed that she was simply too tired for her reflexes to close her eyes for her. She was burning—and it wasn’t an understatement to say that her blood was boiling. She looked boldly into the spectacle with a sense of duty and asked this: “Why am I alive?”
She got no answer, and yet her heart pumped blood into her arms anyway. Into her legs, her eyes, her fingers, her lungs, her organs, her brain… It pumped blood into all of them, fighting tirelessly for the thing she knew as ‘life’. She didn’t understand why, so she asked again.
“Why am I alive?”
Again she got no answer, just more burning heat from the spectacle. Nothing could stop it now. And yet she still stood there, at the edge of the railing, gripping onto the burning hot metal with all of her might. Her legs wobbled, her heart burned, and she was crying so much that she believed she had run out of tears—as nothing came out. But there she was, standing and fully conscious. She looked back on everything that had happened since the spectacle appeared. She was sad, very sad. She felt as though she had nothing left to live for, nothing left to hold onto… And yet not once did she wonder about jumping off of that bridge. Not once did she think about finding something to stab herself in the neck with. She felt that she still wanted to live, but she couldn’t figure out the reason why. She looked deeper into the spectacle and found the light to be very beautiful. She looked past everything, the kiss she shared with Jean, the happy moments with her family and friends, and the chirping of the bird that would sit at her window. The flowers she would love to smell when she was younger, the animals that she would find on the road and in the air… It all had much more meaning and impact to her now. Finally, she let out a scream. A heartfelt, invigorating scream. She decided to ask one more time…
“Why am I—”
She heard the chirping of the canary.
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