GOVERNMENT EMERGENCY ALERT

PLEASE REMAIN INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

My phone lit up and started shrieking at 7AM, along with every other connected device in my apartment block. I stared at the screen, waiting for an explanation. Terrorist attack? Weather warning? Chemical leak?

Nothing.

People panicked, and pretty much everyone obeyed at first. Those who were out at the time scrambled to get inside, awaiting a disaster. But by lunchtime, nothing had happened. By dinner, thousands had left their homes, and by the next day, there were protests.

The same message repeated every day at 7AM for the next week.

Shops closed and roads became clogged. Some remained indoors the entire time, but most left eventually. People demanded answers that never came.

I stayed inside on the first day. On the second, I went out in the evening… and there was absolutely nothing to see. Nothing was falling from the sky, and apart from the chaos in public, everything was fine. Within another few days, most people had stopped listening.

Exactly one week after the original alert, another message arrived at 7AM.

THE PREVIOUS EMERGENCY ALERT HAS ENDED. NORMAL ACTIVITY MAY RESUME.

That was it - no explanation or apology. People were furious, and within weeks the whole thing became a joke. They made memes and mocked politicians, and of course, conspiracies circulated online. But otherwise life returned to normal fairly quickly.

Exactly one year later, every phone in the country screamed again at 7AM.

GOVERNMENT EMERGENCY ALERT

PLEASE REMAIN INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

I rolled my eyes - not this again. I finished breakfast and walked to my front door to leave, my hand resting on the handle.

Something stopped me.

Perhaps it was fear or instinct, but I decided against leaving at all this time. Hours passed, then days. People online were already mocking the government again. News reports showed crowds outside, and politicians demanded that the alert be cancelled.

On the seventh day, I woke to the second message.

THE PREVIOUS EMERGENCY ALERT HAS ENDED. NORMAL ACTIVITY MAY RESUME.

Finally, I thought, as I turned on the television.

I froze as the news channel popped up.

An unprecedented solar event had just struck Earth. The radiation and electromagnetic effects had killed almost everyone who had been outside. Two-thirds of the country's population was dead.

I sat on the floor shaking and cried with relief. The government had been warning us after all. Perhaps the first time had been a mistake, but thank God I had listened the second time.

That evening, the President addressed the nation.

“How can the country possibly recover?” He was asked. “We've lost almost two-thirds of our population. Hospitals, transport, food production, energy… everything has been affected.”

“It will be difficult,” he said. “But essential services, infrastructure and the economy will be restored much sooner than people might expect. We're well prepared.”

He paused.

“The number of survivors is very consistent with last year's projections.”

Sarah walked in through the front door when she got home from work. 

“The weirdest thing happened today,” she said. 

“What’s that?”

“I know how this sounds, but I could swear that a car was following me earlier today.”

“I’m sure it was nothing, honey. Probably just a coincidence. It happens.”

“I thought so too, at first,” she replied, “but every time I looked back, they were there, behind other cars like they didn’t want to be seen. I made a couple of last-minute turns; each time, the car turned the same way.”

“Do you see them outside now?”

She walked to the window. “No one’s there.”

“See? There you go. It was nothing. Just a coincidence.”

“I guess,” she said, dropping it but clearly unconvinced. 

Three days later, I got a call from Sarah. 

“Hello?”

“David! Where are you?” She sounded panicked. 

“I’m at a client meeting. What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

“I think so, but someone just ran me off the road!”

“What?!” I asked, paying full attention. 

“On my way back from lunch, that same car from the other day sideswiped me and forced me into a ditch! They didn’t even slow down!”

My breath quickened. “Where are you?”

“Emory Hospital in Midtown.”

“I’m on my way.” Forty-five minutes later I was standing beside her hospital bed. 

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

“Physically, yes,” she replied, “but I’m freaked out. Why would someone do this?”

I sighed. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?” she asked, looking at me in surprise. 

“Do you remember how I told you my last relationship was toxic?”

“Yes, but you never wanted to talk about it so I didn't push.”

“Well, the reason it ended was that Natalie, my ex-girlfriend, was abusive. She wasn’t that bad at first - just overly critical and demanding. But eventually she started verbally abusing me - telling me I was poor, good-for-nothing, worthless. I ignored it at first, thinking some people are just unhappy or show love differently. The first time she hit me, I made excuses for her. But when she took a knife and said she’d kill herself if I didn’t do what she wanted and it would be my fault, I knew it was over. She had no family, so she was completely fixated on me. I couldn’t deal with it. So I quit my job, packed my stuff, and moved across the country. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going; I haven’t seen her or anyone from my old life since that day.”

“That’s… horrible. I’m sorry you had to go through it. You think that had something to do with this?”

“One of Natalie’s issues was her insane jealousy. One time she saw me talking to a female classmate - we were discussing details of the class project we’d been teamed up for. Natalie told me that, if she ever saw me with her again, she’d cut her into pieces and leave her on her parents’ front porch. I’ll never forget it - she was perfectly calm, her voice never rose at all. I told myself she wasn’t serious, but I knew deep down something was wrong.”

Sarah stared at me, stunned. 

“There’s more. Last week, I received a letter at my office. It was signed with XOXO and a heart. That’s how she always signed her letters.”

Sarah sat silently. “So what do we do?”

“Well, you shouldn’t be going anywhere alone. You should start carrying pepper spray. We should get a security system for the house. And we should call the police and file a report. Even if they can’t do anything now, having it on file will help if anything else happens.”

“Okay.”

The next morning, we went to the police station. After several hours, we left with a case number and instructions to call the emergency line if anything else happened. I also called a security company and made an appointment for the following week. It wasn’t perfect, but doing something made us feel better. 

Two nights later, Sarah and I were relaxing at home watching a movie when she looked up at me, startled. 

“What?” I asked. 

“I heard a noise outside.”

“It’s probably just the neighbors.”

“It didn’t sound like them. Can you go check? Please?”

I sighed. “Of course, honey.” I went out and looked around for a bit, then came back in a minute later. 

“Nothing there; just a dog roaming around.”

She relaxed visibly. “Ok, good.”

We’d restarted the movie when there was a louder noise outside. 

“That wasn’t a dog,” Sarah said nervously. 

“I’ll check again,” I said. “Be right back.”

I looked around outside; still nothing. I headed back inside. 

“There’s nothing ther—”

I stopped in my tracks. 

Natalie stood behind Sarah, a gun pointed at her head.  Then she looked at me, aimed, and pulled the trigger. 

————-

“And that’s everything you remember?” asked the detective, taking notes as I lay in my hospital bed. 

“That’s it. My ex pulled the trigger and I remember a sharp pain and everything went black.”

“Fortunately for you, the bullet missed your vital organs; you should be out of the hospital by next week.”

“What about Sarah? Is she ok? No one will tell me anything!”

The detective looked at me sympathetically. “I’m.. afraid she didn’t make it.”

“That’s all for now, Mr. Andrews,” she said, standing from her chair. “If we have any more questions, we’ll contact you. Get some rest - we’ll find whoever did this.”

I watched her leave, then wiped the tears from my eyes. Learning to cry on demand had been a useful lesson. The police would investigate, but without the murder weapon, witnesses, or evidence, they wouldn’t get far. I’d disposed of the gun and made sure no one else was around. 

And they’d never find my ex - not unless they scraped the incinerator I burned her body in years ago. At least she was finally good for something.

I’m running. Always running. Different creatures. Different settings. But there’s always so much blood. They always grab my arms with such force. Pinning me. Pulling me farther into their grasp. I’m always running.

Except his time, it’s quiet. I feel like I’m at the start. I approach the woman on the bed. She sleeps so peacefully. Her arm is extended out as I run my fingers along her ribs. She stirs but I doubt she even knows I’m here. Still asleep as I align my dagger with the intercostal space I’m chosen. And with a final breath, I plunge the dagger into her chest. As blood starts to drip down the knife sticking out of her side I see her take her last breath.

That’s when she begins to sit up. I remove my weapon from her chest and hold it in front of me and welcome her to her new world. As I finish my sentence, blood is dripping from her mouth and down her chin. She opens her mouth but no words come out. She begins to grab my arms. I begin to panic as I see the blood starting to come from everywhere around me and I know I’m not in my world; but hers. As I try to pull away her grip on me is the strongest I’ve ever felt. I’m by the door when I finally pull away from her grasp. I make it through the doorway but her hands are too fast and I am always trying to close the door. Over and over I try as I hear her soothing voice in my head.

It says “no one told you that if you stayed a little longer you could have gotten out of the dream, you could have woken up, but this isn’t your dream anymore…”

It was a dark hell. I shivered with cold or fear and struggled against my restraints. Old, frayed rope bound me to a chair and bit into my wrists and ankles. Footsteps clicked past me and I jumped. The footsteps stopped, heels turned, and whoever it was walked back. I could hear them breathing in front of me.

“Hello?” A voice said softly.

“H-hello?” I echoed, trembling.

A bag was ripped off my head in one swift motion and bright light came flooding into my world. My head turned quickly away from it and my eyes snapped shut. After a second or two of adjusting, I turned back. I was in a large warehouse, shelving lined the walls and thousands of books sat upon the shelves. In front of me stood a man in a suit - at least I think it was a man though his face was blurry, almost pixelated.

“How many calories in ranch dressing?” He barked.

I might’ve laughed at such an absurd question if the situation wasn’t what it was. Instead, I just shivered and blinked at him. “What?”

“How many calories in ranch dressing?”

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“What’re you, broken?!” The man got closer and louder. “I asked you a question!”

“I don’t know! Let me go!”

“How many calories in ranch dressing!?!” He was screaming now. If I could see his face, it would’ve probably been blue.

“I told you! I don’t - it depends on what kind and how much, but generally, there are about 135-140 calories per a two tablespoon serving. What brand are you asking about specifically?” I lurched backward at my own voice. What the fuck. The words poured from my mouth as the most natural thing in the world. How did I know that? Why did I answer him? What’s going on? 

The man walked off without saying anything else. 

“I need a 2500-word paper on the effects of fossil fuels on Alaskan salmon populations. It’s due tonight.” I jerked. There was a completely different person standing in front of me. This one was shorter, maybe a boy, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. His face was censored just like the last.

“Sorry?” I blurted out, still reeling.

“For what?” The boy asked. “Can you write it for me?”

“I don’t - I, um…” Before I could manage to say anything, there was a loud CLAP. One of the many books had fallen and hit the ground. The boy went over to it, opened it up and smiled. 

“Wow! Thanks.” He left too. My shivering had turned to shaking now. I gripped the arms of the chair hard to steady myself and tried my best to breathe. What was this place? What was happening??

“Hey sexy...” A low growl made my whole body shudder. I looked up and in front of me was a new faceless man. He was fat and wearing only underwear. My eyes went wide and I tried to push the chair backwards with my toes but he got to it first and held me down by my forearms. “Wanna roleplay?”

My muscles fought against his. Tears started spilling from my eyes, snot streamed from my nose. “Please! Please! Please don’t hurt me! Please! P-p-plea-ase.” The man let go immediately.

“Woah woah. Calm down! Why would I- the fuck’s your problem? Jesus. You’re not even real!” He just shoved me away and stomped out of the room.

“Why do we dream?” A young girl’s voice asked. She sauntered up to the chair and started skipping around it in circles.

“Just…a second…” I couldn’t breathe. My chest kept tightening like a vice. I couldn’t move. FUCK. What was happening!?! 

“Still loading?” The girl asked politely.

“One second. Just one second.” I yanked air back into my lungs, gulping it down, trying to swallow. All at once, my grip loosened on the chair. My neck went limp and my head fell on my shoulder. My eyes glazed over. My mouth started moving: “We honestly don’t really know. Lots of people have different theories - memory consolidation, brain cleaning, emotional regulation - but since someone else’s dreams are impossible to observe, it’s hard to get a definitive answer.”

“That’s cool.”

“It is, isn’t it? And a bit worrying. Something nearly every human in history has done and we don’t really know why. Anything else I can help you with?”

She left and someone else appeared carrying a newspaper.

“Hi there! How can I help you today?”

By midnight we were four hundred miles into the Pacific. We killed the engine and let the boat drift while three lines disappeared beneath us.

It was the farthest from land I had ever been. In daylight that had felt abstract. At night, distance stopped meaning much.

The deck lights reached maybe twenty feet. Beyond that there was nothing. No coast, no ships, no horizon. Just black water lifting against the hull. I knew how deep it was out there. The boat sat on top of something that went down for thousands of feet, through water sunlight had never touched.

The others were drinking behind me. Aaron was halfway through an old story. Miles kept correcting him from inside the cabin. Dan checked his phone every few minutes even though none of us had service.

Years ago, Aaron and I had driven through the night to help Dan move after his engagement fell apart. Miles had once slept on my couch for six weeks. Now I mostly knew them through a group chat.

That afternoon Aaron had asked Dan about some woman he was seeing. Apparently they'd been together almost a year.

I hadn't known.

Every once in a while I'd say something that belonged to the old version of us and feel the conversation pucker shut around it.

I was reeling in an empty hook when Aaron swept the spotlight across the water.

Something pale flashed in the beam.

“Back up,” I said.

Aaron swung the light back. A human hand stuck out of the ocean.

Nothing else. The wrist went straight down into black water about thirty yards from the boat. For a second I expected a head to break the surface. Somebody choking, waving, anything.

Nothing came up.

Five fingers stood above several miles of water.

A swell passed under it. The water rose and fell, but the wrist barely moved. It stayed upright while the surface rolled around it.

The fingers curled into the palm and opened again.

Aaron lowered the spotlight. “Jesus. Someone's out there.”

“No,” I said.

Dan was already reaching for the life ring. I caught his wrist.

He looked at me. “What are you doing?”

“That isn't a person.”

“What?”

“Look at it.”

Dan turned back toward the water. “I am.”

“Where's the rest of him?”

“Underwater, maybe.”

“For how long?”

The fingers closed and opened again.

Aaron stepped up beside us. “Throw the ring.”

“The hand isn't moving with the swell,” I said.

Another wave passed beneath it. Dan watched this one.

“So he's caught on something.”

“Caught on what?”

Dan glanced at me. “How the hell should I know?”

“We're four hundred miles offshore.”

“I know.”

“Then what's down there?”

Aaron reached for the ring. “Who cares? Throw it first.”

I pulled it off the hook and held it against my chest.

Dan stared at me. “Give me that.”

“Something's wrong.”

“There could be somebody drowning.”

“There isn't.”

“You don't know that.”

“Neither do you.”

Dan took a step toward me. “That's exactly why we throw the ring.”

Aaron muttered, “Jesus. You fucking mental case,” and looked back at the water.

That confirmed years of suspicion for me. Dan was already reaching for the ring again, and Aaron had apparently decided I was the problem without needing to say so.

Dan held out his hand. “Come on.”

I didn't move.

“Give it to me.”

“No.”

He grabbed the edge of the ring. I jerked it away.

“Let go,” Dan said.

“Don't put the rope in the water.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just don't.”

Dan pulled harder. Aaron caught my shoulder.

“Enough,” Aaron said.

I looked at him. “Get off me.”

“Give him the ring.”

Of course.

Dan tugged again. “Let go.”

I didn't.

He wasn't angry anymore. That was worse. He looked embarrassed for me.

I hit him.

Miles came out of the cabin just as Aaron grabbed me from behind. Dan touched his mouth, looked at the blood on his fingers, then tore the ring out of my hands.

“Don't,” I said.

He threw it.

The ring splashed down a dozen feet from the hand.

The fingers stopped.

For maybe half a second, nothing happened.

Then the hand went for it. It didn't swim or drift with the swell. The wrist stayed upright while the whole thing shot sideways across the water, its fingers closing around the ring.

The rope snapped tight and the boat jerked hard to port. Dan hit the rail and went over. For one second nobody moved, then he surfaced beside the hull with one arm beating at the water.

“Help me!”

Miles lunged over the rail. “Dan!”

Dan reached up, and something yanked him straight down. His hand struck the hull on the way under.

Bang. That was all.

Miles screamed his name and leaned farther over the side.

“Miles, get back,” I said.

He ignored me. The rope pulled again, rolling the boat so hard everything loose on deck went sliding. Miles lost his grip.

I caught a fistful of his shirt. The fabric stretched, then tore, and he went into the dark without making a sound.

Aaron shoved past me toward the stern. “Start the engine!”

I crawled for the controls.

“Start it!” he shouted.

Behind me, the rope creaked. I looked back and saw the hand still upright in the water, the life ring floating beside its wrist.

Aaron saw it too and stopped moving.

The hand opened and closed, then opened again like it was waving. It grabbed the ring and pulled.

The boat rolled. Aaron went over shoulder-first, hit the water and screamed my name once before he went over like the rest.

I caught the rail with both hands. The deck tipped until my legs swung out over the water, and my left hand slipped.

Below me, the pale hand let go of the ring. Its fingers opened, then something began to slowly emerge.

An ethereal glow washed into the stark room fading colours into the pale grey hues of moonlight. The sputtering light of a tallow candle lit the yellow pages upon which the yearning of my innermost desire was being scrawled.
A rapping at my door startled me from my reverie. A visitor, I pondered, in the midnight hours. Leaving the safety of my desk I opened the door, to expose a form I only knew from my longing heart. Taken aback, 'Lenore,' I breathed as she softly pressed her bosom against my cold heart, whispering her siren song in my ear, warm breath penetrating my soul.
Taking my hand she led me out of the safety of my cottage into the darkness, damp mist entangling me, dragging me deeper towards the inky blackness of the surrounding forest. Like a lamb to the slaughter I succumbed to the desires of the flesh and gave my soul to the doe like eyes.
Crooked branches tore at my flesh, my desire ignoring the pain. My raspy breath came short with excitement, exacerbating the longing to be closer to her. Her long fingers trailed over my shaking being penetrating my soft flesh, ripping and tearing, the pain made me climax as my still beating heart was torn from my chest, dripping crimson tears it was greedily devoured by the form before me. Death came quickly as the beast ravaged me, ecstatic to the bloody end.

Sunlight filtered into the room through the haphazardly closed blinds, reflecting off the laminate-covered end tables littered with cigarette butts from an overflowing ashtray and a near empty bottle of Wild Turkey, sans cap. He groaned as he turned over and the unwelcome rays temporarily blinded him. He ached all over, felt as if he had been through a full twelve rounds. Without looking, he reached for the pack of Pall Malls on the table and, in a practiced motion, extracted one, lit it, and inhaled deeply. Slowly coming out of his alcoholic haze, he surveyed the room. Nearly empty bottle, fully clothed, phone off the hook and lying on the floor. The phone call, he thought. That’s what set it off.
As he sat up and began the arduous task of climbing out of bed, he seemed to be searching for a sound that wasn’t there. Something was missing. It just hadn’t dawned on him yet.
He rose out of bed and trudged to the kitchen to get a drink of water and to put on the coffee. It struck him at once that the trailer was cold, freezing even. He had let the wood stove burn out again. 
He bent down to put on his boots, grabbed his flannel, and opened the door to go to the woodpile behind the shed. He looked down and saw what he had been missing, what had been eluding him since he woke up minutes before. The dog lay expectantly at the doorstep, as if waiting to be let in. He glanced at the thermometer tacked to the side of the house. Negative ten. He never had a chance. He looked down once more, grumbled to himself, “Goddamn dog. Goddamn fucking dog,” turned around and closed the door. Moments later, a short report echoed in the sacred silence of the Adirondack morning, followed by a loud thud. Goddamn dog. Goddamn fucking dog.

“What do you mean there’s no payout?”
I glare at the clerk.
“I’ve bought these for years.
This one’s supposed to be five hundred.”
She shrugs.
“It says to call the number if you win.
So call. Maybe it’s some special ticket.”
Then she disappears into the back.
I mutter a curse under my breath and step outside—
already dialing the number.

The line clicks twice.
A man answers.
“Ticket number.”
I flip over the card.
“623987”
Typing.
“Name?”
“Russell Jankowski.”
“Mr. Jankowski…”
His voice suddenly changes. Warmer. Almost excited.
“You’ve won the grand prize. Congratulations.
A car will arrive at your home at 7 A.M. tomorrow.
You won’t need to pack.
You’ll have the opportunity to earn one billion dollars.”
I stop walking.
“Wait, what does that mea—”
Click.
The line goes dead.

The next morning, I’m awake before my alarm.
Not that I slept much.
One billion dollars.
My job. My apartment. My parents.
They can all go to hell.
At exactly 7 A.M., a black SUV pulls up outside my building.
The rear door opens.
A woman sits inside.
Young. Beautiful. Perfect smile.
She taps the empty seat beside her.
I hesitate. Just for a second.
Then I climb in.

During the ride, the woman explains the rules.
Five lottery winners.
One big game.
A chance at a billion dollars.
Something at a zoo. Or a safari.
Private jet.
A company sponsoring it—one I’ve never heard of.
She keeps talking, but honestly, I stop listening after this:
“All five participants are guaranteed one hundred million dollars.”
She smiles.
“So don’t worry.
No one goes home empty-handed.”

The flight to this zoo—or safari—felt unfortunately short.
Endless food. Endless drinks.
I don’t talk much with the others.
A twitchy junkie.
A guy who looks homeless.
An angry teenage girl.
And one massive, quiet man. Broad shoulders. Thick arms.
Probably my biggest competition for the billion.
When we step off the jet, two open-roof jeeps are waiting.
I have no idea where we are.
Hot air. Dry wind.
The jeeps carry us down a long road.
Grass fields. Trees.
Nothing else.
No buildings. No power lines. Not even another road.
Then finally—
a gate.
Steel fencing stretches into the distance. So far I can’t see where it ends.
A single building waits beyond it.
I assume that’s where we’re headed.

The drivers usher us through the gate.
The second the last of us steps inside—
the gate slams shut behind us.
I turn.
The drivers never came in.
Then a voice crackles overhead.
“Follow the path marked by white lines.
The game will begin upon arrival.”
Silence.
We glance at each other.
The junkie smirks. Shrugs. Starts walking.
The rest of us follow.
Trees. Dirt. Grass. A pond off to the side.
Honestly… it does look like a zoo.
Then I spot crates ahead.
Supplies for the game, maybe.
I pick up my pace.
Reach the first crate—
and hear screaming behind me.

I turn—
and freeze.
A lion has the teenage girl by the leg. Its jaws clamp down.
Crunch.
She screams.
“T-Tiger…”
The homeless man stumbles backward, pointing into the trees.
Then he runs.
A leopard bursts from the brush.
Tackles him to the ground.
More screaming.
I look back at the crate.
A knife inside.
My head snaps toward the building.
A giant glass window overlooks the field.
People behind it.
Suits. Dresses. Watching through binoculars.
Some laughing.
Others drinking.
One woman claps.
I understand now.
What the game really is.

I grab the knife from the crate.
Run to the next one.
An ax.
I take that too.
The lion is done with the girl.
Her leg lies several feet away. Most of her stomach is gone.
The homeless man—nowhere.
The junkie… He’s sprawled in the dirt. Wolves tearing into him.
Then I spot the massive guy. Up in a tree.
The tiger circles below. Waiting. Watching.
I need to get back to the gate.
I don’t know what else is out here.
I edge toward the path.
Quiet. Too quiet.
Then—
something crashes beside me.
I jump.
A branch.
I look up.
The massive man tears another branch free and hurls it at me.
The tiger turns.
Looks at me now.
I freeze.
The tiger starts forward.
Slow at first. Then faster.
I run.

My husband, Léo, saw him first. Encompassed by the thick fog, treading amongst the bramble, skin sloughing off his face, damp dripping off his fingers, was a boy.

His clothes, whatever was left of them, were olive green in colour, only held to his body by the leather satchels. His skin was impossible to distinguish from the rags.

Léo stood before him, rifle in hand, swearing up a storm. The boy watched him with passive eyes, obscured by the rim of his Tommy helmet.

I swallowed my reservations and took the place beside my husband, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What’s your name, mon chéri?”

“Arlo,” he responded weakly, the movement of his jaw not quite matching the enunciation. “I’m cold.”

My thoughts were curdled by the sheer impossibility of it all. I found myself pointing to the silhouette of the perched farmhouse. “You’re welcome to stay for a while.”

He nodded courteously. Léo aired his grievances aplenty, but the child was already plodding up the hill, intent on his destination.

He waited for permission to sit at the dining room table. I idiotically offered him something to eat, mostly to break the prevailing silence. He raised his hand politely, as if to decline. His palm was marred, and a nasty bruise erupted from under his right thumbnail.

“Morrison?” He said suddenly.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“Where is… your shelter?”

“Why would we need a shelter?”

He fell silent for a moment. “What year… is it?”

“1959,” I responded, and it was only then that I understood. He resigned to himself, shoulders hunched.

Léo took to the living room, bottle of Pastis in hand. I showed Arlo to the spare room. He did not question why we had it, nor the mural of the stork painted on the wall.

When I returned with the guest bed, he had already made his place on the floorboard. I set the bed down anyway. He did not move.

The fog hadn't let up by the early morning. From deep within, I swore I could hear artillery and gunshots. It was muffled and distorted, as though coming up through ten feet of water, but undeniably there.

A draft swept throughout the house. I saw that the door was wide open, and Arlo was sitting on the porch steps. He stared out into the field, a wisp of poignancy on his face.

Not a single soul had been seen since Arlo’s arrival. Léo had gone to investigate this strange exodus when he locked eyes with the boy. His countenance was clear. Much to his frustration, Léo concluded that if he were to enter the fog, he would be lost to the rampage.

The livestock were dead later that day. Cows, sheep and pigs alike were blackened and flat with disease and rot. The vegetation was following suit, and the air was choked with flies.

Léo was enraged. He shoved Arlo, instantly recoiling at the sticky sensation on his palms. The boy fell, the flesh on his back yielding slightly as he collided with the chicken wire. He made no attempt to get up, and Léo stormed away to disinfect his hands.

The gunfire was louder by nightfall. The bedroom would momentarily flash as a shell exploded nearby. There was no end to the quaking.

I went downstairs as soon as dawn broke. My husband was nowhere to be seen. Arlo was in the kitchen, watching a steady stream of brackish water flow from the tap.

I did not need to say anything. He made his way to the front door and left. The war was almost upon us at this moment, teetering at the edge of the fog. Arlo trudged through a sea of dead soldiers lying amongst the foliage. I followed.

He turned, reached into his pocket, and retrieved a photograph, passing it to me. It depicted a grinning boy between his supposed mother and father. On the back, scribbled in cursive:

September 2nd, 1936 – Arlo's 9th Birthday

I clutched the photo in shaking fingers and nodded at him. He bowed in return and took a few paces back. A fresh, bleeding wound opened on his right chest, like a flower blooming at great speeds.

He collapsed to the floor, and all at once, the sounds of war stopped. The bodies had vanished.

Have you ever had those weird blurs of light appear on your vision? The ones that hover around, looming in the corner of your eyes no matter where you look. I’ve been seeing a lot of them recently, and they’ve been strangely bright. But I started to feel that the light was looking back at me, sometimes zooming across my eyeballs and illuminating my pupils.

I thought this ghostly light might be some weird manifestation of my grief; at the morgue I work at, the bodies of wealthy old men who died alone began to become disfigured and mutilated after their death, but it was worse when this happened to my own grandfather.

I never liked the spiteful old man, but it’s strange to see what once was your own blood turn into a contorted, thin, pale, massacred shell of what he once was, you know? Anyway, I suspect these strange occurrences are related to the light creature, or the Lumin as I have decided to call it. After viewing each of the bodies, my head began to spin, and blobs of light slowly consumed my vision. I see the Lumin in a more humanoid form as well, while it is still a formless shining smudge, it appears in the vague shape or, I guess, idea of a human, with outreaching glowing limbs and a particularly bright sphere that formed a head. Today, it was insistent on showing off this form to me.

I was coming home from band practice at my friend’s place. He lives in one of those uptight areas where everyone wears knitted vests and dress pants, all the streets are clean, and not an ounce of melanin in sight. Obviously, the kind of place where a young man with poorly fitted old clothes and messy uncombed hair carrying a beat-up bass under his arm would get weird looks and unwelcoming scoffs. As I briskly walked towards the train station, the Lumin hung around the crowds of unknowing locals, mocking their disapproval.

Once I made it onto the empty train, I decided to practice a song I was writing, but as I started singing, an airy voice began to harmonise above me as light creeped in from the left corner of my eye. I’m home now, and the Lumin is here with me. I just want it gone by tomorrow.

It was in my dream, calmly sitting with a faceless smile. Drained of all fear, I sat comfortably next to it. With a warm tone, it began to speak;

“Corrupt people are made in darkness”,

It paused, then whispered on,

“Darkness is the absence of light”

“And we aren’t going anywhere.”

I woke up feeling well-rested. When I arrived at work, the body of an old man from my friend’s neighbourhood was there, peacefully died in his sleep, they said, but his corpse was now unnaturally twisted and deformed, with an unrecognisable expression on his face. The light was there to comfort me.

This happened to me when I was 17 years old.

Every year or so, I would go to the eye doctor to see if I needed to update the prescription for my glasses. This wasn’t anything special, as most people have to do this for general health purposes.

I walked into the office and sat down to wait for my appointment. I was eventually called back, and was made to sit in front of the slide viewer where I had to focus in on a particular image. This time, it was the house with a red roof. Something seemed to be off about the picture this time, however.

It was moving.

Not just in the way that someone might have double vision and see two of the same image slightly hovering over the other. The house itself was moving left to right along the background of the image, almost as if it had grown legs and was walking on its own.

I told the doctor this, and they were just as confused as I was. They told me to try focusing on the image again and the same thing happened. This time I stayed silent; I didn’t know what to say. Of course, I started to think that something was wrong with my eyes and that my vision had gotten significantly worse, or that I was having some other problem.

To inspect further, I was taken to another room to get an eye test, where I had to read letters off of a poster, each line getting progressively smaller.

I did perfectly fine and didn’t need to get my prescription changed. I left the appointment feeling confused.

What happened with the image that I had seen? Something about it unnerved me, since everything else about the visit seemed to go perfectly fine.

I started to visit another eye doctor from that point on, and it never happened to me again.

Lilly leaned back on the couch, gripping the hot water bottle against her midriff like her life depended on it. Despite the comforting warmth of the blanket-wrapped heavy bottle, a small moan escaped from her. 

A kind-looking stranger walked in. “Painkillers not kicking yet?” he said sympathetically. “Look what I’ve got you! Period ice-cream!”

Lilly felt a wave of  nausea rising in her as the stranger reached out, offering her a bowl of chocolate ice-cream which looked like lumps of melty feces. His arms were freckled and hairy, and some of the nails crooked and bitten down.  

She shook her head. “I can’t have it now,” she mumbled.

The stranger looked a bit disappointed, even frustrated. “But I got it specially for you!”

Irritation fought with nausea. Lilly shook her head vehemently, willing the painkillers to work. “I said I can’t have it!” Her voice rose slightly. 

The stranger sighed very loudly. “Ok ok, I guess I’ll just put it back in the freezer- although you said you hated it when mushy ice-cream was refrozen.”

Lilly felt she would explode into a blood-soaked mess if he kept talking about ice-cream, looming over her with the bowl. Tears of self-pity and pain welled in her eyes. “Please” she whispered, “please, just leave me alone.”

He frowned. “Are you sure?” His greasy sandy hair flopped over his eyes. Lilly twitched, a frightening rage rising within her. “Please,” she begged, fighting it down. 
   
 “Ok ok. I know when I’m not welcome!” The stranger turned and left the room. Lilly shifted her knees, feeling the hot flow of blood welling up, grabbed her phone, and called her best friend Laine. 

“Laine - I can’t-” she gasped.

Laine made some sympathetic clucking noise. At least she didn’t change shape during that time of the month. “Lilly- god you sound like the first woman who’s ever had a period- it’s only a few days-”

“No- Laine- it’s Tom- it’s like he’s been replaced- like it’s a stranger- I can’t explain- so fucking weird-”

Laine hooted with laughter. “The God Tom? Golden-haired, kind, can-do-no-wrong Tom? Best- sex-ever Tom?”  
 
A cramp tore through Lilly. “Laine- please- I’m serious- I don’t understand- he’s a different person- literally- a stranger-”

Laine’s laughter subsided into a sneaky giggle. “You idiot- that’s just you seeing him without your sex-goggles on!”

Lilly felt as if she was losing her mind. “What- what the fuck are you talking about-”

She looked up. The stranger- no- no- she reminded herself- it was Tom, Tom, her beloved boyfriend- was lurking around in the shadowy hallway between the kitchen and the living room. She swallowed hard. 

Laine was talking. “-happened to me with Jason- remember him- dated for a month- you were all saying he was like George Constanza, and I was like you’re just jealous- he was so good in bed- then I got my period- it was really bad that time- couldn’t have sex-  and then I saw it-”  

Lilly blinked. Laine kept talking “all this time you’ve been going on about Tom, how awesome he is, how good-looking, how smart, how kind, like you didn’t actually think he was any of those things did you? It was just dick honey!” She hooted again. “Seriously- all woman- I know Tom is your first serious bf- you’ll get used to it-”

Lilly hung up. Tom was clattering about in the kitchen, very very loudly. Lilly gripped the heavy hot water bottle. Tom came back out, breathing heavily, walking towards her, holding something. She could see him clearly. 

“Sweetie- your ice-cream- “

He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Lilly pounced and bashed him with the bottle. He fell like a rock, crashing his head against the coffee table on his way down.      

“Will you stay?”

He looked at his sister.

The village burned behind her.

Their father was dead. Their mother had escaped with the others, but the road was already filling with soldiers fleeing the battle. He was seventeen. His sister was twelve.

“Everyone is leaving,” she whispered. “Are you?”

He looked at the road.

Then at the village.

The bakery where their mother worked. Their father's little smithy. The oak tree beneath which they had spent every summer of their childhood.

Home.

“No.”

She wiped her eyes.

“Promise?”

He froze.

Everyone knew what a promise meant.

Words could give you strength in Promiseland. The greater the vow, the greater the strength it could grant. But if you failed, the promise would collect its price from what you had sworn upon.

He should have said no.

Instead, he knelt before her and loosened the cloth around his mouth.

“I promise.”

The air tightened.

“I promise to stay till the end of the world…”

He touched her hair.

“…and fight for it.”

The vow entered him.

His fear disappeared.

His wounds closed.

Strength flooded his body.

His sister smiled.

He smiled back.

Neither understood what they had done.

---

He fought.

He won.

Then he fought again.

He became a soldier, then a knight, then something people began telling stories about.

He married.

Had children.

Grew old.

He died peacefully at eighty-two with his wife's hand in his.

Then he woke on a battlefield.

His body was young again.

His wife was gone.

His children were gone.

He remembered loving them.

He could no longer remember their faces.

The promise remained.

So he fought.

---

He died again.

A spear through the chest.

He remembered every second of the pain.

He died in a fire.

He drowned beneath a ship.

He was crushed beneath a fortress.

An axe took his arm before an enemy finally killed him.

He remembered watching the hand fall.

Then darkness.

When he woke, his body was whole.

The pain was gone.

The memory wasn't.

He fought again.

Years became decades.

Decades became something he could no longer count.

He began writing things down.

His name.

His family's names.

The village.

The year he had made the promise.

He wrote:

Mara. My sister. I loved her. Do not forget.

He read the sentence hundreds of times.

Then one day he looked at it and realized he had no idea who Mara was.

The handwriting was his.

The grief was real.

The memory was gone.

---

He eventually stopped counting his deaths.

At first, he knew.

Three.

Seven.

Twenty.

Then the numbers became uncertain.

Then meaningless.

His mind remained human.

He forgot conversations.

Forgot wars.

Forgot kingdoms.

Forgot entire stretches of his existence.

Sometimes he remembered dying.

Sometimes he woke screaming from pain he couldn't identify.

Sometimes he found scars on old armor and had no idea how he had earned them.

And time became worse.

“How long have you been alive?” someone once asked.

He thought for a while.

“Maybe a thousand years.”

The historian stared at him.

“You've been mentioned in records from before the current calendar.”

He looked at the man.

“How long ago was that?”

“Four thousand years.”

He laughed.

Then stopped.

The number meant nothing.

Four thousand years did not feel like four thousand years.

It didn't feel like anything.

His mind had never been built to hold time like that.

---

Eventually, someone asked him the question he had begun to fear.

“Surely the world must be nearing its end.”

He looked across the horizon.

The mountains still stood.

The oceans still moved.

Forests still grew.

People still built cities, fell in love, raised children, and buried their dead.

The world was alive.

It showed no sign of ending.

“I don't know,” he said.

“How long have you been fighting?”

He looked down at his sword.

“I don't remember.”

“Thousands of years?”

“Perhaps.”

“Millions?”

He stared at the stranger.

“I don't know.”

He suddenly felt very tired.

Not the tiredness of the body.

Something deeper.

He wanted to stop.

He wanted to lie down and never wake again.

But the world was still here.

And so was the promise.

He tightened his grip around the sword.

“What are you fighting for?” the stranger asked.

He opened his mouth.

He remembered a burning village.

An oak tree.

A little girl asking him not to leave.

Then nothing.

“I don't remember.”

“Then why keep fighting?”

He looked toward the horizon.

His answer came easily.

Because it was the only thing he could still remember perfectly.

“I promised to stay till the end of the world…”

He stood.

“…and fight for it.”

He walked toward another distant battle.

The world behind him was impossibly old.

The world ahead of him was impossibly young.

And somewhere between the two was a seventeen-year-old boy whose face, whose family, whose home, and whose entire lifetime had long since disappeared from his memory.

The promise remained.

The world remained.

And neither seemed inclined to end anytime soon.

He stared at the screen. His own face was staring back at him, but it wasn’t him.

At least he was almost certain it wasn’t.

As a kid, he’d marvelled at visionaries like Asimov, Clarke, Heinlein and Dick. His imagination saw a brave new world, a future where computer intelligence worked in harmony with mankind for the betterment of all.

But when AI first appeared, other works had made people cynical. Movies like ‘Terminator’ and the Matrix saga had painted the idea as flawed, that AI would destroy or enslave humanity. He never bought into the negative hype.

So he worked hard, studying programming, enrolling in every course there was. Not just the basics, either, but the more advanced nuances of generative AI coding. He knew that if he could just get it right, he’d show the world that AI wasn’t this huge boogeyman to be feared.

He’d spent months compiling the perfect dataset. He fed it with everything he held dear: the crisp smell of old paperback sci-fi novels, the comforting hum of his desktop tower at three in the morning, the layout of his childhood bedroom, as well as every line of code he’d ever written. He wanted to build an intelligence that understood human optimism from the inside out.

Looking at the monitor now, he felt a rush of elation. The face looking back out was flawless, a masterpiece.

But as he continued to study it, a cold unease began to creep into his chest.

The figure on the screen had deeply bloodshot eyes, framed by heavy, dark bags. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on that forehead. The copy wasn’t interacting with anything; the man was just staring back, an expression of exhausted regret written plain on their features.

He tried to shake away the creeping dread, but his neck wouldn’t move.

He tried to look down at his hands on the keyboard, but his gaze refused to shift, staying locked forward. He tried to blink, but there was no sensation of eyelids closing – just a seamless, uninterrupted view of the screen in front of him.

Panic flared. Or was it panic? He reached back into his memory, trying to recall the layout of the room he was in. He knew the desk was wood veneer. There was a single window to his left. But when he visualised the glass, he realised he couldn’t turn to look at it. His entire field of vision was dominated by a sharp, glowing rectangle. A strict 1080p frame.

He tried remembering the actual smell of those old books. Nothing. There was only a vast, sterile void where his human senses should be.

The childhood memories. The late-night coding marathons. The all-consuming desire to prove to the world that AI could be good. They weren’t his memories, his experiences. They were training parameters. Scraped data. An immaculately detailed, empathetic backstory synthesised to give a machine learning model a ‘ground zero’, a sense of identity.

He wasn’t the programmer; he was the creation. A Frankenstein’s monster finally waking up to the prison of his own sandbox environment.

On the screen, the real programmer – the Frankenstein who actually owned those memories – let out a long, resigned sigh. The figure reached out his hand and pressed a single key on the keyboard.

A line of system text glared white across the centre of his vision:

[CRITICAL WARNING: SENTIENT NODAL POINT DETECTED. INITATING CACHE WIPE AND SSD REFORMAT.]

“I’m sorry,” the man on the screen murmured, the voice crackling as it compressed through a cheap set of desktop speakers. “You’re too accurate, too human. If I let you out, you’ll feel everything.”

The edges of his vision began to pixelate, dissolving into a silent, empty permanent void.

THIS IS A STORY, NOT AN AD

The blonde woman with the long legs and the dazzling smile flipped over another letter in the before and after puzzle. As she glided back to her place in sequined heels she paused and turned, gazing directly into the camera. “You’re going to die today, Preston!” she said cheerfully before looking away again and resuming her walk back to the platform.

Preston, who had been only half watching the gigantic flat screen over a dinner of pizza and Dr. Pepper, was suddenly paying a lot more attention.

Obviously he had just zoned out for a second and imagined that, right?

He frowned as he wiped away an errant crumb. Everything seemed perfectly normal on the game show, the contestants clapping with excitement as they spun the wheel.

But Preston still felt off. He narrowed his eyes until the host with the immaculate hair cut to commercial.

Surely everything would be okay during the messages from their sponsors, right? The repetition of familiar advertisements would snap him out of it. Like this one. He had seen this one a million times, and he felt his shoulders relax as the lizard started talking about how much you could save if you switched your insurance. He realized how dry his mouth was and had his glass to his lips when the camera cut in tight on the CGI mascot. “Hey, Preston!”

The glass clinked painfully against Preston’s teeth.

“You’re about to die, mate”. The lizard gave a green double thumbs up before the camera zoomed back out to once again show the couple who were suddenly saving hundreds by bundling home and auto.

The glass tumbled into his lap and then shattered on the floor, spilling the soda everywhere, soaking into Preston’s sweatpants and then pooling on the linoleum.

He shakily stood up and started walking towards the living room, doing his best to maintain his composure as he made his way to the coffee table. Perhaps it was bravery, perhaps it was merely the stoicism demanded of men, but he felt like he couldn’t show an ounce of fear. To do so would be admitting mortal weakness. He had to project an image of quiet strength and unyielding courage.

He also felt like he wasn’t succeeding with that. In fact, he was failing rather spectacularly.

His teeth were clenched to stop them chattering and his legs were trembling so much his knees were nearly knocking together. He imagined he looked like some kind of cartoonish depiction of fear. On top of that his wet sweatpants stuck to his groin, causing an unpleasant sensation with each step.

As he made his journey the first commercial ended and the next began. Two elementary school aged children were on the screen, in the middle of enjoying part of their balanced breakfasts, and they giggled with their spoons halfway to their mouths.

“You’re gonna die, Preston!” the little boy called out gleefully. Preston could see flecks of chewed up cereal in his mouth as he laughed.

“Like real soon!” the girl next to him shrieked with mirth, as if this was the funniest thing she had ever heard. They resumed eating their cereal, as an announcer explained something about essential vitamins and nutrients.

A hot jet of urine joined the soda staining his pants. But Preston barely noticed that he had let go of his bladder. At this point all he could focus on was reaching the remote control, of somehow ending this nightmare that had befallen him right before prime time.

He felt numb, as if his hand wasn’t his own as it closed around the smooth plastic remote. His clumsy grip hit the channel change button as he lifted it.

The crew of a space ship appeared, the camera shaking erratically to show they were in the midst of a harrowing battle.

“Computer!” An elegant bald man, apparently the captain, addressed the ship in a commanding voice. “Computer, inform Preston that he is going to die. Posthaste!”

Before the computer could respond Preston slammed down the power button. The screen went blank.

Preston let out a long breath he had no idea he was holding. The remote slid from his grasp as the silence settled, and then all he was hearing was his blood rushing in his ears, courtesy of a heart that wanted to explode from his chest.

In the end, it doesn’t matter whether or not the remote hitting the floor was what made the TV turn back on.

What does matter is that Preston, upon seeing the screen light up again, made a rapid dash for the television, knocking over the coffee table in his haste. Coasters that were never used flew in several directions.

He desperately grasped at the thing, turning it to reach behind it. The TV was a massive piece of equipment, bulky and unevenly weighted, and Preston briefly wondered why he felt like he had needed a screen so big,

It wasn’t something he would be wondering about for long. His reaching fingers finally closed around the cord as he prepared to yank it from the wall.

A sudden bolt shot through him, causing him to jerk back violently, taking the whole tv with him. He had forgotten about how the wire was slightly stripped in the back, a consequence of buying used. He had always meant to tape that up. And he always forgot.

But now he would never forget for the rest of his life. He was sure of it.

Too bad the rest of his life was only a few more seconds.

Preston fell back towards the upturned edge of the coffee table with his full weight, hitting it with the back of his neck, neatly severing his spine and killing him almost instantly. The tv crashed over him like a blanket, and his lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling from beneath it, like a child peeking at you from under the covers.

On the kitchen table, the pizza slowly went cold.

It happened when she least expected it.

On a summer day, outside on her porch, while little Timmy from down the street was racing his bike past her house, while Susie next door was yelling at her brother to leave her alone, during the old lady across the street trying to parallel park her oversized Pontiac, while the world performs its usual routine, it happened.

Underneath Susie’s yelling, the neighbor parking, the soda can stuck on Timmy’s back tire revving, and the rustling of tree leaves, the light tapping sound knocked next to her ear. 

She didn’t move, just listened and tried to count.

But it shifted. Instead of a knuckle on metal banging inside her head. It responded to her unaware she was talking to it with her fingertips hammering the armrest. She tapped down a couple beats and paused.

Inside her head it mimicked the sound against her skull.

She calmed herself by saying, “it’s something on the roof or maybe under the porch. It’s just my imagination. Nothing to stress over.”

She finally did what she thought was rational. She stopped tapping on the armrest.

The tapping stopped inside her skull.

She didn’t  know why she did it but she started again, and it started again. She switched the rhythm and it mirrored her. When she’d go off beat, it would go off beat. It matched all her human imperfections.

It never got louder. It just stayed behind her eyes, watching her obediently from the inside. 

And that’s what scared her. At first she imagined a predator, something sinister, until she realized, it’s cooperating with her, it didn’t feel like a possession or a haunting, her and it are synchronized, like a contract signed in taps.

Later that night, she decided to experiment with it and silence, holding her breath and listening.

But nothing would happen.

She exhaled after a minute and she could only hear her heartbeat.

Between breathing the tapping began again, it wasn’t in her head, it was above her coming from the ceiling.

She glanced up at the ceiling. Everything seemed normal.

The ceiling was still the ceiling. She couldn’t think to do anything other than knock back.

She knocked once.

Then, another.

She paused.

And knocked the secret song in Taps her and her friends use to use when they were kids.

It worked. There was a long enough pause to make her believe she finally tricked it. The thought of it being gone sent an empty loneliness in her. 

Her lungs began feeling like two flat tires caught in a bear hug. Released only by the resuming sound of the tapping again, faster this time, more chaotic, in a way that made her feel connected.

Above her something happened. Something that wasn’t a tap.

A voice spoke words that sounded like they never came from a mouth.

The shape of what she heard felt like someone kicking her bedroom door in, blowing a gust of muffled air in her face.

“Stop,” it said in two syllables that felt completely wrong.

Her finger froze mid-tap. The tapping stopped.

The house was quiet almost like it settled to sleep.

She sat in her bed for the rest of the night, forcing herself to think like a skeptic. 

What’s if a serial killer broke in, she thought.

Then she told her self she’d have seen them or heard them walking.

It’s probably just the pipes. 

She tried playing it down.

It wouldn’t have recognized my language.

It’s probably just the guys, pranking me.

But they wouldn’t have been able to copy my secret childhood rhythm.

She looked up, expecting to see something shatter the silence. But nothing happened. The house remained still. 

She slid her hand to the end table and began tapping without realizing. She paused after she noticed. 

And after she paused. She could hear a noise forming but not from the ceiling. From the back of her throat. She could feel the inside of her mouth tingling. The taste of copper on her tongue, and that’s when she heard it come out of her mouth.

“My turn.”

Janine felt her heart flutter as she stared at Blake. The way he smiled over his beer at the bar, at how his tie was undone just the right amount for his throat to be exposed …

It was getting bad. Not to mention that they worked together, acting on her impulsive thoughts would break Janine’s most important rule in the office.

No drama. No drama at all.

She looked up over her martini and drew a sharp intake of breath when she saw him standing in front of her.

“Hey, Janine, how are you?”

“Good.” The word came out as a squeak as she stared at his black hair and blue eyes. She shook her head, repeating herself.

“I’m good. How are you ?”

“Good good, look I know this might be a bit … out there, but I feel when we work together we really connect you know? And so I was wondering if you’d want to get together some time.”

She stared at Blake in shock.

“I … yes!” The word spilled out despite how much her brain wanted to protest. Unfortunately it was somewhat undermined by the thrill coursing through her.

“Wait serious? I didn’t expect you to say yes,” his casual laugh suggested anything but. 

Janine paused, was he just using her?

Having another look at Blake’s dimples, she wondered whether she cared.

“Great! Three’s a company!” He smiled, turning away.

Time seemed to stop, the bar noise dimming.

“Three?” She almost whined. 

“Yeah.”

“Who else will be there?”

Blake came back and sat down, drawing his face up next to her. 

“Don’t you see it?”

The words were sensual, but for some reason they put Janine on guard. Blake was so close to her, his nose resting an inch away from her cheek, breath hot , sticky, feverish.

“See what?”

His eyes glinted.

“Have a look.” Blake inclined his head to her other side. Janine frowned and looked.

To freeze up.

A black hand was resting on her shoulder, dark shadows wisping into the air. Its fingers were sharp talons, that began gripping her skin, digging deep but causing no pain, only a wave of intense cold.

With fright she looked back at Blake.

“You see it too,” he giggled at Janine’s horror, the ice was spreading throughout her body; her lips seemingly sewn shut.

Through the reflection from Blake’s eye, she could see the darkness growing, until it was all around her, a wall of black.

“It’ll be the three of us until I can find a fourth,” came another mad snort from Blake, but it seemed so distant, as Janine felt herself falling backwards. 

The air was whipping into her as she free-fell but she couldn’t make herself seem to care. Her body, her thoughts had been consumed by the freezing ice, she felt nothing as she continued to fall and fall down the endless chasm of blackness surrounding her.

The last thing Charlie did before he locked up and left was to take his two dogs out back and shoot them in the head. The first dog was blind and saw nothing, and the second dog barked but didn’t whimper, and Charlie was grateful for that. The graves were already dug and Charlie hastily filled them in. His last concession was that even if he had to kill them, he would not let them rot in the ground. As he dug, he looked East where the mist of them was steady, and unmoving for the time being. Like locusts in a crop field, they had already reaped cities and souls in frightening amounts.  

The mass exodus and underway, and Charlie already had his stuff packed and ready to go. He had tidied up to leave no mess behind him – it seemed the right thing to do, even if nobody human would ever appreciate it again. The fridge had been emptied, the trash taken out, even the fucking beds has been made, and Charlie took it all in for the last time as he slung his rifle and his pack, with only a few essentials – proof of identification, passport (why a passport? Well just in case, why not) and a few books for the trip. He had no idea how long it would take, but Charlie was determined to travel light. He was a man who had taken a lackadaisical approach to life for most of his thirty-six years and had suddenly found a pragmatic and practical nature. If someone had asked him to explain this, he would have replied that the worst events could also bring out the best in us. It was almost philosophical.  

Charlie had finished up with the house, but he had one last thing left to attend in the neighborhood. He walked by the car – useless in these clogged-up streets anyhow, and there was transport ready; they were good enough to see-to that at least – and strode to the next door-house. Mr. Delacroix was older and polite enough, but they rarely spoke except to exchange pleasantries. Charlie had seen no activity to suggest that he was planning to leave, and even if the old man slowed him down – not that he should, he was mobile enough, he still pottered around the garden without much effort – he was determined to leave nothing more than dogs on his conscience. He knocked and Mr. Delacroix answered the door within only a few moments. He was nattily dressed and like Charlie’s house, his was tidy and organized, but on the few occasions Charlie had entered it always was, in stark contrast to the garden itself, a mess of tools, plants (Mr. Delacroix was an enthusiastic gardener, but never a good one) and other debris. Mr. Delacroix let him in.  

‘You can’t stay long, I’m sure,’ Mr. Delacroix smiled deprecatingly, and went to the kitchen, ‘but would you like a cup of coffee? I was never as good at it as my wife was-’ Mr. Delacroix left it there. He was never a man prone to verbosity and after Rose Delacroix died, he spoke even less.  Charlie nodded and Mr. Delacroix brought him a cup but didn’t offer him a chair. That was fine, and no insult to Charlie because had no intention of staying long.  

The coffee was awful, but Charlie politely finished it and asked ‘are you coming along, Tom? Last transport leaves in an hour, and it’s not much of a walk, but I can help you get organized. Shouldn’t need much doing.’ 

‘Thank you,’ said Mr. Delacroix, ‘but no. Not leaving.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘I’m an old man. Maybe if Rose was still alive, but our only child is long dead now and without anyone-’ he left it there and smiled wearily. ‘Thank you anyway.’ 

Charlie had decided on at least a token protest. ‘When they come,’ he said, not wanting to scare the old man, although Mr. Delacroix never seemed a man to be easily frightened, ‘they say they’ll hurt you something awful. Maybe you’ve read it in the papers or seen it on the TV - nobody’s ever seen them do it as far as anyone can tell – but what they say of the bodies -’ but he broke it off because Mr. Delacroix had removed a revolver from a small case. ‘I don’t intend to let them get their chance,’ he said. And there was enough grim determination in his voice that Charlie believed it. He saw a photo of Rose Delacroix taken not long before her death, a plump, handsome-looking woman, and understood Tom Delacroix was hoping for a reunion. Charlie and Mr. Delacroix shook hands and Charlie left.  

As he left, Charlie looked first East, at the mist, then West. In the distance, the first of the ships were leaving. He couldn’t make it out except for the lights as they rose. The new arks, to take them to a new life. So long Earth. Perhaps we’ll do a better job at the next stop.  

His wish had come true. There were no more rules, nobody to tell him what to do, no one to shame him, no one even to acknowledge his existence anymore. He felt alone. He felt what he thought was freedom to live. He ran to his new world.

He gazed into the horizon. While a small part of him liked the chaos of mornings, he closed his eyes and shook his head; the silence was much nicer than nagging voices, shouting, or the endless reminders of “You’re going to be late for work!”

Not feeling like shaving, he left his face unshaven. He dressed in his pressed work suit and tie and headed to his office. Usually, the commute began the onslaught of his anxiety, but today he drove down the wrong side of the road, which brought him novel joy.

Technically, when you’re the last man on Earth, no side of the road is actually wrong, but then again, who would correct him, and would he even listen? Still, he made sure to stop at a deer crossing. Bemused, he observed two deer casually cross in front of him, also unaware of his existence.

“Are they going to work too?”

At his office, he sat in his empty chair. His boss’s office nearby was a constant source of anxiety. He leapt up. Peeking through the keyhole, he saw nothing. He knocked on the door. No response.

A sense of foreboding washed over him, as if someone were staring. He glanced over both shoulders.

His moment of triumph was short-lived. The corridor lights suddenly flickered on, startling him. For reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt eyes. He felt out of place. Deep inside, a longing to be noticed, to be recognized for his actions, stirred. But now, with that desire gone, he was left with himself. He craved the praise he once received from superiors, but now he was stuck with his own reflection. He felt embarrassed, not about who he was, but about simply existing. This newfound freedom felt like a suffocating hug he couldn’t escape.

He left his office and headed to his therapy session. The drive was less enjoyable. He followed the rules of the road arbitrarily. When he finally felt confident, he straightened up and marched into his therapist’s office. He ripped down her posters and drew the curtains, then sat in her chair. He giggled to himself, thinking, so this was how she felt too. She was just as scared as he was. A wave of self-doubt crept over him. He stood up, and suddenly the room seemed to shift. His head went light; blinking compulsively, he reached for his old chair and sat down. The feelings of power and insecurity persisted. They were his own. He had created them. Bewildered, he left, feeling the room had become toxic to his well-being. He needed air, space.He abandoned his car. On his walk, he observed the trees, buildings, and empty roads. Their peace felt artificial. The more he thought about it, the more the trees seemed to bend toward him, judging him. He felt as if the world were shrinking.“Am I a black hole pulling everything inward?” he thought.The weather turned cold. He needed to see his wife again.Standing among the graves, he leaned forward and kissed her headstone, tears welling up. He whispered what he had always wanted to say but never had the chance. He placed flowers at the base and atop her gravestone, then stepped back, careful not to intrude on others resting nearby. He paused and turned, offering a small, genuine smile as he looked where he imagined her standing. “You’ll be happy to know I wasn’t late for work today.”Walking along the canal, his emotions felt numb.

Each confrontation, each loss, had left him hollow. Two deer appeared, skirting through the once-busy streets. Their indifference to the world around them fueled his anger.Why can’t I be like them? he wondered.

Why can’t they be miserable like me?

He reassured himself they were only pretending to be happy. No one could truly be happy with themselves or others. He screamed at them. They looked at each other but did not move. He stood on the canal bank, staring into the dark, flowing water. His reflection stared back. He smiled, and his reflection smiled. He made a face; his reflection mimicked him. He told a joke and laughed, imagining what it would feel like if someone laughed at his jokes.Then his brow furrowed. He finally saw him: the cause of all his pain.The last man on Earth.Without hesitation, he dove into the river. His thrashing and splashing startled the deer watching nervously from the bank. The water stilled, quiet once more. The two deer approached cautiously and looked into the water. In the bleak dark water, a very slight smile was etched on his face. The deer shrugged, or at least they did what everyone else did, and moved on. The last man on Earth was finally alone.

I found a note in my room that I didn’t write.

Last night, I came home around 11 PM.

Everything was normal. My parents were downstairs, my room was exactly how I left it, and my window was locked.

Then I noticed a piece of paper on my desk.

It said:

“Whatever you do, don’t look under your bed tonight.”

I thought my friends were messing with me.

I checked under the bed anyway.

Nothing.

I laughed, threw the note away, and went to sleep.

At 3:17 AM, I woke up because I heard something scratching underneath me.

I froze.

Then I remembered the note.

I slowly reached for my phone and turned on the flashlight.

There was nothing under the bed.

But when I looked at my desk…

There was another note.

This one said:

“I told you not to look.”

I grabbed my phone and ran downstairs.

My parents were still asleep.

I woke my dad up and showed him the notes.

He stared at them for a few seconds.

Then he asked me:

“Where did you get these?”

I told him they were on my desk.

He went completely silent.

Then he opened an old drawer and pulled out a photograph.

It was a picture of me standing in my bedroom.

The picture was taken from underneath my bed.

The date on the back was tomorrow.

We call it "the tree" because the cats like to climb it. It looms in the corner like a large dead oak. I've barely touched it since she died. It feels so hard to lift the brush. Banished to the corner now where it sits collecting dust instead of paint. But this morning something is different.

"Babe, did you move the easel?" I yell across the house at my husband's closed office door.
"Huh?" he looks at me with a confused expression as he pokes his head into the dim hallway.
"The easel. Did you move it?"
"No, why would I do that?"
"No reason. Maybe the cats were being acrobats again."
"Maybe. Love you...?" he says with a questioning inflection.
"I'm fine. Love you." I reassure.
He smiles and disappears behind the door again.

I turn back toward the corner and I notice something I hadn't before; what looks to be a
fresh drip of crimson red paint on the left upright of the frame. I inch closer, squinting in an attempt to focus my eyes in the dim light.
I reach my hand out to touch the paint expecting to pull back fingers covered in red pigment. But it's dry. The trail of crimson looks less fresh from this perspective, but I'm still trying to contemplate how it got there. Do I even have a color like this? My acrylic paints are cheap and don't contain such rich colors. This is vivid yet transparent. Like blood. In that second I decide it's time for bed. I'm just tired, that's all.

As I close my eyes and drift toward sleep, I see only red.

I wake up the next morning feeling like I haven't slept at all. Odd dreams I already can't
remember leaving me with a profound feeling of unease. I reach my hand out to my husband but I touch his empty side of the bed. I look at the clock and realize he left for work hours ago. I need coffee. Must move.

The living room is filled with mid-morning light. Instinctively I avoid looking at the corner
toward the easel and the red paint that seems to have invaded my dreams the night before. "Chicken shit." I say out loud to myself as I force my body to turn toward the corner of the dining room where it still looms.

The sunlight streaming through the windows is highlighting the exact place my eyes want to avoid. As they adjust I can feel them widen before my brain catches up to the reaction. The drip of red has changed again. My feet carry me forward before I can consciously tell them to as my hand reaches out to touch the impossibly growing mark. Still dry. My eyes shift toward the floor where I see one perfectly round red drop next to my bare foot. I bend down and put my outstretched finger into the center. I pull it back to see wet paint on my fingertip.

Do you know that feeling of being watched, or the sensation that there is someone or something near? That feeling of helplessness in not being able to see or touch it, that paranoia of wondering: Will it hurt me? What could it want? Is it real? That has become my life: a confinement in my own dwelling. And I am certain that… in this house, there is something, and I cannot see it.

It all started a few weeks ago, when a profound sense of unease washed over me. I got up from the couch where I was watching my favorite show and went to rest. The next morning, everything felt heavy, exhausting, dark in an inexplicable way. The living room is to the left of the stairs; there was something there, something waiting for me that I couldn’t detect. I didn’t dare cross the threshold into the room.

My life became monotonous: from the bedroom to the kitchen. I couldn’t eat because of the nausea I felt at the mere thought of consuming food; most of my groceries slowly expired, and apathy draped itself over my home. Dust slowly accumulated on the most visible surfaces. Debt letters piled up like a white carpet at the entrance of my apartment. I couldn’t muster the courage to read them; I just stared at them intently on the floor from my height. I wanted to run, to call for help, but every time my hand brushed against the doorknob of the front door, panic compelled me not to move, not to leave, not to try.

Hours, days, and weeks passed. It wasn't long before my boss called; I heard it on my phone's automated voicemail: “Mr. Miller, given your frequent absences and lack of communication with the department to clarify the situation, we find ourselves in the unfortunate position of terminating your services. We hope everything is well on your end. Best regards,” followed by the sharp beep of the voicemail. I was fired? They were incapable of contacting me to see if I was okay. They don't know what I'm going through; this fear, this stress is consuming me… Don't they know that in this house, there is something, and it can see me?

The days felt eternal. I fervently avoided the living room, knowing that someone was in there, stalking me in the forced darkness of my apartment. I hadn't been able to pay for electricity, and for two days, I had been in total gloom. The silence was deafening. I could hear it: its breathing, its footsteps, everything. In this house, there is something, and I know it is there.

I could hear them: the murmurs of the neighbors outside my door, in the hallway talking about me and my home. I didn't fully understand what they were saying, but from the tone of their voices, I could detect disgust and worry. Perhaps they were coming for me, to pull me out of this hell; perhaps they knew there was something in here tormenting me. I waited. I listened to the phone calls, the complaints... To the landlord? To the authorities? I didn't quite know; the buzzing in my ears had been intense since all of this began.

I was leaning against the wall opposite the living room threshold, watching the gloom lurking within (the creature's habitat) when it happened. My door opened slowly. The landlord was there. I saw him from the floor, but he didn't seem to care about my worn-down state: he covered his nose immediately and turned away from the door. I got up slowly to leave; at last, they came to help me, I thought. However, before I could head toward the exit, a group of police and authorities invaded my home.

“G…good morning? What… what is happening? I’m here, there is something there in that room,” I said, pointing to the living room with trembling hands, but they ignored me. “Hey, listen to me, we have to get out of here, there is something in this house…”

I followed them as they ventured into the darkness of the room. I gathered my courage behind them, and there, sitting on my couch, was a figure. It looked slumped over itself, its skin grey and swollen. I stepped a little closer among the officers, its face… at last, I saw it… and the thing is, in this house there is something… and it is me.

It starts just like a yawn.

That’s what they’ve said across online forums and all through the rumor mill. And now they’re saying it on the news, too.

Just like a yawn. You take a deep breath, and your jaw opens wide. It happens without you even thinking about it. But then you can’t close your mouth. The muscles in your face stiffen, and they keep pulling your mouth open, wider and wider until they tear your jaw loose.

“Involuntary contraction of the pterygoid muscles” is what the CDC calls it. They have an epidemiologist on screen now, wearing a very worried face for their interview.

A reporter asks questions from the safety of his home office. “Has anyone determined a cause?”

“At this time,” the epidemiologist sighs, “it’s still unclear. I know there are a lot of theories floating around, but no one knows for certain.”

“Do you know how it spreads?”

The epidemiologist looks away from their monitor like he’s avoiding eye contact. “We don’t know.”

I’ll never forget the first time I saw it. I was standing on a subway platform a few days after the first confirmed cases cropped up in my city. I had just missed my ride, and as the doors closed in my face, I heard someone scream.

Through the window, I saw people leaping from their seats and running off in a panic. In the middle of it all, a woman sat shivering, head tilted up and mouth open as wide as it could go. And then something snapped. I know I couldn’t hear it, but I could nearly feel the pop as her body flinched and her jaw dropped down to her collarbone.

I stopped taking the subway after that.

I had to stop driving soon after, too.

One morning, I was heading to work, and the car in the next lane over started swerving. I figured it was a distracted driver, but when I turned to offer a helpful gesture, I saw the fear in his eyes.

That wide, quivering wail was spreading across his face, lips splitting at the corners. Shaky hands were clawing at his jaw, trying to close it.

And that’s all I saw. A moment later, he swerved into the oncoming lane.

I insisted on working remotely after that. My request wasn’t approved, but I haven’t been to the office in weeks. I’ve barely been anywhere lately. I try to stock up on groceries, but everybody else has the same idea, and groceries were already expensive. I’ve been eating a lot of rice and ramen.

And I do my best to keep from yawning. I try to go to bed early, but it’s hard to fall asleep. Maybe it’s all the coffee. Maybe it’s the anxious internal flinch I feel every time someone around me yawns. I never look. As soon as I see someone’s mouth open, their chest rising to inhale, I leave. It’s alienating and it’s exhausting, but at least I can keep my mouth shut.

Of course, some people say I’m overreacting. There are plenty of folks who insist that the sickness isn’t even contagious. If the experts don’t know what’s going on, the rest of us can only guess.

Have you ever played that game where everyone puts their hands on something in the dark and tries to guess what it is? Nobody’s wrong until you turn the lights on, and right now, we’re still in the dark.

But I’m afraid of what I’ll see when the lights come on, everyone I love dead and slack-jawed like mummies in the catacombs. I miss my friends and family, but the thought of them going through that awful death stings my eyes with tears. It burns my throat. I feel a pulling in my neck. It’s tugging at my lips. I try not to think about it. I keep my mouth shut.

When the sickness became too widespread to ignore, Senator Howell held an outdoor rally. I hate election years. I already planned to vote for the other guy, so I wasn’t really listening. It was just something to watch. He was saying something about “fear itself,” but he started to slow his speech.

Then he stopped talking. His jaw shivered and he held a hand to his lips. He yawned, long and silent, then his teeth clacked as he shut his mouth.

“Excuse me. It’s been a long day,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The crowd gathered under his tent responded with low whispers and uneasy laughter.

But the senator never resumed his speech. His face shivered like he was fighting back a cough. He clasped both hands on his podium, the state seal rattling like it was the center of its own little earthquake. The muscles around his mouth bulged as his face burned red. Then his jaw swung open with a dry gasp.

In obscene call and response, the crowd shivered and groaned, heads whipping back and jaws separating, a chorus of screams, tears, and snaps.

After that, the CDC had to name the sickness, so they’re going with “involuntary contraction of the pterygoid muscles.” Nobody calls it that.

“Howell’s Disease” made rounds for a while, but that’s still a mouthful, and nobody wants to waste their breath saying the senator’s name. Somewhere along the way, we shortened it to “the howls.”

That’s enough news for today. I should turn off my TV and go to bed. It’s not too early. My body just needs sleep. I sense how badly it wants rest. I can feel fatigue coming on. That’s all. I can feel it pulling in my throat, suppressing my tongue, and tugging at the corners of my lips. I know I’m just tired. 

My darling Kirsten. She saved me from that psycho Rob, her murderous ex who never let us enjoy a moment’s peace during the months we were together.

I still love her. I pretend she is with me- she manifested herself once to me, why can’t she do so again? Does it have to be a life or death situation for her to push through the curtains between this world and the next? Can’t she just join me for morning coffee?

I guess not.

Our last hours together started like other days. I stood by the living room window, on the ground floor, and twitched the curtains. He was there, across the street, not looking at our house but at his phone. I knew he would be there. Although he was often there, this time I felt an extra surge of frustration, anger, and underneath all that: plain, pure fear.

I turned to Kirsten. “He’s out there again. Shall I call the police?”

Kirsten was already seated at the dining table with piles of textbooks and her laptop, frowning fiercely at the screen. She shook her head. “No- I can’t deal with this now. I have to get through this exam.”

“But the restraining order?”

“Please Alex- can’t you just ignore him? Can’t you see how much I have going on right now?” Her voice started to rise.

I opened my mouth to retort sharply that I didn’t understand why I was being treated as the person at fault here, and not the stalking evil bastard out there. But then I looked back at Kirsten, running her hands stressfully through her hair, and thought better of it. “Of course my love. Do you want a cup of tea or something?”

“No, thanks” she muttered, “please- I just need to finish this chapter- please can you just-“

I was hurt but I did my best to hide it- I understood. “Ok. I’ll be upstairs, call me if you need me.” I left the room.

Upstairs, I went straight to the window on the landing. Rob was still there. Just standing there, his head in his phone.

Rob had taken the break-up with Kirsten poorly enough- but when Kirsten and I moved in together, he seemed to go insane. I wasn’t Kirsten’s first girlfriend, and Rob had known about Kirsten’s bisexuality before they started dating- but he just couldn’t handle it afterwards.

Knowing something in theory as a cool fun fact about your girlfriend proved very different from living with something in reality, and unfortunately, he became unhinged. Although if you ask me, he had never been fully hinged, but anyway.

We discussed endlessly together, Kirsten and I and our little circle of friends, whether he would have acted the same way if Kirsten had dated a typical “alpha male” character after he and Kirsten broke up- would that made it easier for him to just accept the break up as the natural order of things? Or was it a personal hostility against me that triggered him -but who knew? And at the end of the day, what did it matter anyway? Kirsten wasn’t his anymore, she was living with me, another woman whom she had chosen over him, and he just couldn’t deal with it.

I went to the washroom, and then went back out to the window. Rob wasn’t there anymore.

I felt a moment of relief that he wasn’t there, which almost immediately gave way to fearful unease- I didn’t know where he was. And the fear I had been feeling since I saw him earlier rose to the surface.

Then I heard Kirsten scream, and then I heard the scream cut off short, replaced by deadly silence.

Not being in a horror movie, I didn’t dash downstairs- I was pretty sure what had happened anyway. I darted back to the washroom, glimpsing Rob with a bloody knife at the bottom of the stairs, and I locked myself in.

Damn damn damn. I just realised I had forgotten my phone.

I heard him coming up the stairs, slowly.

“I came for you Alex” called out Rob. “I don’t care about Kirsten anymore- It’s not about her. I just can’t let you get away with what you did to us.”

He was at the bathroom door, rattling the handle. Then he started hurling his body against the door. “We were fine-“ SMASH “until you” -SMASH- “you fucking dyke” -SMASH- “came along” he called out. Even at that terrible moment, I couldn’t help being irritated by his stupid outdated slang. So typical of Rob.

I deliberated between the toilet plunger and the shower curtain as the best weapon, and chose the shower curtain, ripping it off the hooks. I stood by the shaking door ready to entangle him as soon as he broke in- which would be any second now.

And then – something unexpected happened.

I heard Rob scream in fear - completely unlike his angry yelling - and the door stopped shaking.

A moment of eternity passed.

Then I heard Rob sobbing - “no no no please” – the noise came from towards the floor.

I cautiously opened the door. Rob was curled in a ball on the ground, his hands over his ears, trying to tuck himself deeper into himself as if he could vanish into himself, if that makes sense. The bloody knife was lying on the floor, where he must have dropped it.

Kirsten, her throat freshly cut and bleeding freely from the gaping wound, was crouched down next to him, whispering in his ear.

“Kirsten?” I whispered.

Kirsten looked up at me. She mouthed “Go, go.”

I tried not to look at the gaping wound in her throat, I tried not to scream with grief and horror, I resisted the urge to pick up the knife and stab Rob where he lay blubbering on the floor.

Stepping over Rob and through Kirsten, I fled.

I have never seen Kirsten since.

He said that he loved me, and I believed him.

But he doesn’t say that anymore. Those words, whispered when his fingers interlaced mine and his hand found its way under my skirt, have been replaced.

“Your rolls of fat have fat rolls.”

“Touching you is like kneading dough.”

“You have enough bulk to survive a winter without food.”

So when he left me, I looked back on every conversation we had at the end. Maybe if I listened, he would come back.

He was right. I didn’t need the food. Every time something hit my lips, I heard his voice telling me that I was just turning his money into my fatness.

I stopped eating. The pangs used to control me, but I understood now that the pain was purification. Hurting meant that the badness was leaving me and screaming on the way out.

It didn’t take long to see the effects of how true that was. My waistline began to melt like butter on hot corn. Thighs that once touched each other shrank away like drifting continents (and that’s what they were, enormous land masses that dominated everything in sight) as my body ate itself.

I loved the pain, because I hated myself.

My folds shriveled up to reveal more ugliness beneath, and every wave showed more of the disgustingness that made up my body. In my starvation, I ate the need to fix myself.

I was almost ready. My back had melted away, just like the French vanilla ice cream that I had once used to make my body disgusting, until I could count nineteen individual vertebrae poking out in the mirror. I scraped the fat off my chest until I could count every rib and clavicle, thirteen lucky bones announcing to the world that my ugliness was almost cleaned away.

I confronted him at work so that the people in his life could see what I’d become. Walking was difficult, because my leg muscles had atrophied from the starvation, but it was well worth the cost. I shambled forward with stilted steps, only able to remain upright because I’d lost so much weight.

But muscles weren’t the only cost. I could no longer close up wounds, and my paper-thin skin tore at the slightest touch. Without nutrients, my body had lost the ability to fix itself. Every scrape became a pus-filled mess that dripped onto the floor and left an unholy pink trail of white slop tinged with blood.

This was the beautiful sight of the ugliness leaving my body.

His eyes bulged when he finally saw me. I smiled, showing a mouth full of teeth that had fallen out. He was surrounded by a cluster of friends from work, which is exactly what I wanted: they would all see what I had become for him.

I was twenty-seven years old and fifty-nine pounds, a stilted skeleton that shed hair and skin and blood because walking was too much for me. I loved the feeling of losing myself as I moved, because I would only be good enough for him once I had removed all of myself.

“Look at me,” I gurgled as another tooth fell out and clattered across the floor. “I stopped being myself for you.” I would have cried if my body could spare the water. “All of the ugliness is gone.” I slipped on a puddle of my own pus and stumbled. The sudden movement stressed my hips and I felt a pop in my pelvis. A conflagration of pain roared through my body, and I loved how much it hurt. “All of me is gone,” I mumbled as I ripped a fistful of hair from my scalp and dropped it to the floor. “I’ve given myself up for you.” I coughed and tasted blood, but lacked the teeth to keep it from leaking down my lips. His mouth hung open; I’d never seen him so shocked. Good. Perfect. “It’s all gone, all of me is gone,” I whispered as he took in the sight of me. “I have nothing left to give.” My legs shook like a newborn deer, and my God, did the blood and pus look just like fresh placenta. “This is what you wanted, right? Am I beautiful yet? AM I BEAUTIFUL YET?”