Moonlight dissipates into a cloud of clove smoke and my eyes adjust to the sight of an evaporating sea. Fingers tingle with the chill of another dying night as they grip the edge of a warm cigarette. Blood graces nicotine inside my poisoned heart and I wait for my skin to dry and crack under a thin layer of frost. One last drag and the remains of the cigarette fall off the balcony and dissolve somewhere between the mist and rocks below the house.
I walk into the bedroom and flip the switch next to the doorframe, killing lights showering a pretty face eager to drift back into slumber. She looks at me with a midnight gaze and flips golden bangs out of her face. “Come back to bed,” she says.
Deep breaths and I nod, ignoring the flounce of cold covering my arms and legs. I slide under layers of wool blankets and she drapes a leg over mine, stubble colliding with goosebumps. It’s not so easy to fall asleep anymore and even as I close my eyes and embrace the most beautiful woman left in the world, thoughts race to the tune of a thousand crying children. I force quiet into the most hollow portions of my brain and soon enough all I can hear are the momentary melodies of Chelsea’s breaths. She’s sleeping soundly and I wish I could do the same.
Wind whistles over an ocean that’s seen better years and I can remember when Chelsea and I found this house, this sanctuary away from a world in which blue skies were replaced with endless nights. I force my eyelids shut and picture a summer lake glistening with sunlight. The future has become our present and what I miss the most isn’t something that’s within the reach of my bitter, tired fingers. Chelsea slides a hand up my abdomen, resting it on my chest. Purple-painted fingernails clash against pallid skin and a shiver of warmth glides throughout my blood.
An odd hum resonates constantly from the glitter of dead stars. It leaves us forever haunted and more than afraid of our future. The jagged corners of another dream begin to pinch me as a symphony of dying waves crashes against the last bits of consciousness.
#
Eyes open and view an empty bed and I can hear Chelsea attempting to make breakfast in the kitchen. I yawn and catch the cold breeze from outside. Even with the few doors and windows of the house locked and barricaded, a thin rush of air always manages to seep in through unseen cracks. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stare through the sliding doors of the bedroom.
Only a few months ago I got used to the company of the moon and there’s a small part of me that feeds off its pallid glow. Sometimes I believe I don’t miss the beaming rays of sunshine anymore.
Chelsea leans into the room, tight black t-shirt and the jeans she’s worn everyday for the past two weeks. “Breakfast is on the table if you want anything,” she says.
I shake my head and continue staring at the darkness of the fresh morning sky. “I’m not hungry.”
She sighs and blows hair out of her face, pouting her lips. “You have to eat something. It’s not going to make the situation any better if you turn against your own body. You need strength. Please, eat something, even if it’s small.”
“Okay.” I stand up and take slow steps out of the bedroom and into the hallway. I can remember the framed pictures that once graced these walls, snapshots into the life of another family. After the earthquakes, we threw them in the trash, the ghosts of the house long forgotten. The four-second walk into the kitchen seems more like time in a coffin than anything else.
A few pieces of burnt toast adorn a plate of watery eggs. I sit and smile at Chelsea. She was never a good cook but I know deep down inside that she’s been trying her best for the past few months. I shove a forkful of yellow into my mouth and chew. Chelsea sips juice out of a paper cup and asks me if I want any. I nod and she pours the last of a bottle of apple juice into her cup and slides it next to my plate. Before I notice, she’s on my lap with her arms wrapped around my neck. Her tears feel like fire to my aching skin and I push her off of my torso.
She does this at least once a day and I can never blame her.
“I want to leave,” she says in between deep breaths. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I force her arms to the side and gaze at a monolithic beauty, bleeding mascara over wet cheeks. “I don’t want to be here either. But I’d rather be here spending my days with you than living death two hundred miles away. Home is gone.”
My finger gently presses into the skin between her breasts, black fabric embracing me. “This is home now.”
I can tell her smile is forced and she walks away. I finish my breakfast and place the soiled plate into the sink with the other dishes that neither of us has touched in days. Four or five months ago I would have yelled at Chelsea for leaving a mess in the kitchen but now I’m just grateful that we’re both alive and well. Sometimes she cries for her mother and father, other days it’s for her sister and the handful of friends that she kept close to her heart.
I resist the urge to walk into the bedroom to comfort her and instead sit quietly in the living room, watching the anathema of blue snow fall from the sky and coat the ruins of the world outside the house.
#
Chelsea and I were engaged before the events happened. We wanted a December wedding and the quiet voices in our hearts begged us to hold true to the date. The winter air held a crisp quality and I found a charcoal grey blazer buried deep in the bedroom closet. Chelsea’s hair was parted in the middle, rising roots of black fighting an unnatural swoop of blonde. She braved the cold and wore a white tank top and green-tinted jeans.
She looked at me with carcinogen eyes and mascara the color of autumn chrysanthemums. She said three words and I kissed her, standing and swaying under dead tree limbs while descending ash danced in our hair and backs. For the first time in weeks a small sliver of pink light penetrated through the obsidian of the afternoon sky. We both smiled at this small marvel in our new world, hoping that it was a sign of hope, a sign of better days.
We sat against the lone rock in the remains of the garden and held each other until the snow started to drift against the comfort of our skin, bits of vanilla radiating with only a tinge of blue. I planted my elbow in the dark crevasse below the middle of the rock and Chelsea laid her head against my chest. She perked up at the sight of two rabbits hopping through the dead trees of the surrounding forest, signs of life after nature’s funeral.
We remained perfectly still and watched the animals sniff around the ground, little paws barely imprinting the ash and snow. The smaller of the two had fur as white as virgin clouds and when it stood up I could see a small grey spot of fur the shape of a distorted heart on its chest. Its mate, black fur and eyes like two drops of gelled seawater, nudged its nose against our feet before running back into the remains of the forest.
The white rabbit followed suit and before long Chelsea and I had fallen asleep, each holding what was left of the world in our tired hearts.
#
Fuzzy vision and I hear Chelsea’s voice. She’s sitting next to me and I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep in the living room. She stares straight ahead, as if entranced with the night sky. A splinter of moonlight splits her face diagonally. My hand finds its way to her lap and her fingers clasp onto mine, squeezing like she hasn’t seen me in months. Her head tilts, lips gently pressing against mine. She tastes like fresh honeydew. We kiss for what feels like hours, our bodies warm with desire.
“We should make dinner,” she says. “Are you hungry?”
I nod and place my lips on her head, the scent of old shampoo and daisies greeting my nostrils with eager flare. She stands up and smiles. “You stay here and relax. I’ll start dinner.”
I lift my legs to the other side of the couch and sigh. It’s only when I catch the outline of movement against darkness that I run into the kitchen and grab Chelsea by the hand. She doesn’t have to say a word, just runs to the bedroom and slams the door shut. We’ve been prepared for moments like these.
“What’s out there?” Her question is muffled by two inches of pine. I can hear voices outside of the walls, bodies scratching the exterior of the house. I reach into the hallway closet and pull one of the three guns resting on the top shelf. The metal is cold and all I can picture is my father teaching me how to duck hunt when I was a boy.
I rest my head against the bedroom door. “Stay in there and don’t move. I’m going to check out the front of the house.”
Hands and forehead drip with sweat as I peek out the peephole of the front door. I’m greeted with nothing but the violent swaying of vapid tree limbs and an everlasting gaze into the black of night. Silence breaks and my eyes burn with a quick flash of white light, fingers losing their grip on the gun. I fall to the ground and hear the banging against the door, each vivid thump pounding my spine. I close my eyes and remember that if whoever’s outside gets to me, they’ll get to Chelsea.
An ounce of strength finds its way into my hands and I’m pushing the door, holding it closed. The locks jingle with fright. I hear a long, winding screech and the force outside stops. I wait at least two full minutes with my heart beating as fast as a thousand horses before I stand up. My back slides against the door on the way up and part of me is surprised that it’s still upright. Chelsea walks slowly into the hallway and hugs me. I hold onto to her with one arm and keep the gun raised in the air with the other. “What was it?”
I shake my head and turn an eye to the peephole. A swash of black on the other side, an array of golden lights flickering in the sky. I push Chelsea away from the door and motion for her to leave the hallway. She takes tiny steps backwards until I can only see white-painted fingernails gripping the edge of the living room entrance. The locks are eased open. I’m careful to keep my fingers wrapped around the handle of the gun. The knob turns and a frosty chill sneaks into the house, the scent of sugar and ice.
I stand on the doorway, gun poised and ready for an attack. I turn my back to the night and see two streaks painted on the front door, a silver vein entwined with a splash of red in the shape of a distorted ‘V.’
The echoes of comfort fly away as I rush into the house and slam the door behind me.
#
The wool blanket wrapped around her, Chelsea sits silently on the couch in front of the living room window. “What if they come back? What if they break in here? What do we do?”
I’ve been holding the gun for almost two hours and I’m so tired that I fear my fingers are interwoven with the aged metal. The truth is that I don’t know what to do if someone breaks into the house. “I don’t know what to do,” I say. “It was just a threat, Chelsea.”
She throws the blanket to the floor, fuzzy red clashing with the vomit-colored carpet. She starts shouting and after a few minutes I can only close my eyes as a response. When she calms down, she picks up the blanket and tosses it on the couch. She’s wearing tight grey sweatpants that make her legs look like knives. Before she can leave the room I pull her into me so close that she’s lifted off the ground. One deep kiss and her hands are tugging at the back of my head, slender fingers pulling brown hair.
“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” I say. “I love you. I would have rather died four months ago than know there’d be a day I’d have to live without you.”
The subtle twinkle in the cavernous green of her eyes is all I need right now. She holds my hand, palms sticking together with a millimeter of sweat. Chelsea’s head eases into my chest and her eyelids open and close to the rhythm of my breaths.
“Whoever they are,” I say, “will never get past me. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.”
She presses her lips against my cheek and leaves the room. “You can’t sit there all night. You need some sleep.”
“I know. I’m going to sit up for a little while.”
Her footsteps into the kitchen are soft murmurs against the pink lightning storm raging outside. Cherry slices of light break through the darkness, each one shining long enough to see the outlines of every remaining star adorning the night sky. If I close my eyes the peculiar drone beyond the living room window will fill my head. Each note is like code, informing who’s left in the world that the earth is evolving into something different. I can only imagine what lies beyond the balcony. And I can only imagine who left their markings on our front door. We haven’t seen signs of life since the trek into the mountains nearly four months ago.
I sit up and walk through the kitchen. I haven’t eaten all day and have no desire to do so now. Chelsea and I are sick of eating canned food three times a day but we both know that luck was on our side when we found a stockpile of food and bottled water in the cabinets and cupboard.
A supple ginger glow spills out of the bedroom. It makes my shadow look like a hunchback, my head and arms bent forward. My fingers slide against the wall, squishy steps on the bedroom carpet as I view the striking silhouette of Chelsea’s body. She squeaks out a small “hello” with a seductive smile. She was blessed with the curves of a tattooed angel and a voice that could make a man cry.
“Come to bed,” she says.
Pretty soon my clothes are on the floor and I forget that the world has ended.
#
I wake up alone in bed, the leftover scent of sex and lavender floating above my bare body. Chelsea was never one for sleeping in. When we first lived together, she’d wake up much earlier than me and go out for a run or make breakfast. I guess she’s still in the habit even though night has eroded most of the light of every cold morning.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and put on jeans and a t-shirt. My hoodie slouches over my shoulder as I head into the kitchen and see Chelsea sitting silently at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. She looks up and a tiny smile curls at the bottom of her face, a sliver of delight amidst light freckles. Her head bows back to the newspaper and after a minute I realize that I haven’t watched the news on television or read a magazine or newspaper since the sun’s rays first carved through comet dust.
Chelsea flips a page and lifts her head to me, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. I run fingers alongside parts of her matted curls, crunching the hardened hair from day-old hairspray. She looks as beautiful as she did the night before.
I lean in and see that she’s reading The Great Falls Tribune from March 6, 2015. She can see the inquisitive look on my face, probably the way my eyebrows flare against the pale skin of my forehead. “I haven’t read anything since we got here,” she says. “I just want to feel like the world is alive and breathing again.” She raises the newspaper, her eyes scanning words that mean nothing now.
I nod and sit next to her, easing into the pine chair and taking a deep breath. My body wants breakfast but my mind needs fresh air. “I’m going to take a quick walk outside. Do you want to come?”
“Do you think it’s safe?” She frowns.
“I think we’ll be okay.”
She folds the newspaper and zips up her sweatshirt. I can tell she’s not wearing a bra; nipples poke through two thin layers of cloth. She reaches out for my hand and I hold onto it as we walk out of the kitchen and through the front door. The markings on the door behind us, neither of us mention their creation or what they mean. We follow the small trail around the house leading up to the edge of the property, the balcony just above us. Only a small amount of light provides guidance to the end of the trail. We look over the side, cerulean mist circling above the rocks, the last breaths of a dissolving stream. Chelsea squeezes my arm, her slender fingers tightening around muscle and fabric. “We’ll go inside in a few minutes,” I tell her.
I can read fear in the words lost somewhere between her eyes, unease flowing in her weary blood. A sniff of air and I know that the world doesn’t smell the same without leaves and trees and animals. I used to work in the city and every day cursed the bustle of metro life. As I take a few steps to the edge of the rocks, I realize that I’d give my own soul to be lying in the apartment bed with Chelsea, a concert of blaring traffic on the streets outside.
The rocks sturdy beneath my boots, I edge further until a blanket of mist wraps around my legs. Chelsea stays behind, standing with her arms crossed, eyes now two slits of green. When we first found the house the sounds of crashing waves below us put our minds at ease, as if our destructive present was offset by an inkling of normality. We noticed the waters of the rivers start to evaporate only a month ago. Everyday the fog rising from the base of the mountain grows thicker and it’s only a matter of time before yet another aspect of our world fades into nothing.
It’s amazing to think that we haven’t seen the sun in months yet the surface the earth hasn’t frozen over. I know it’s somewhere behind the blanket of obsidian, afraid to shower its old world with healthy streams of light.
Chelsea calls out to me, the trickling of her squeaky voice reaching me as I find my last step on the rocks. A gigantic breath of misty air and my lungs soothe with a comfortable taste. It’s all I needed this morning. I walk back to the trail and Chelsea pulls my hand until we’re pacing on the dirt. “I don’t like it out here,” she says.
“Neither do I.”
Before we reach the house, I look back to the lifeless woods surrounding the trail. A path of fire shoots across the horizon like a scarlet laser, piercing a constellation of stars. Chelsea puts a hand over her mouth and looks at me. We stand in awe for a few minutes, the next comet shooting across a coverlet of cobalt green, its tail withering into tiny sparks and silent explosions. I hold Chelsea’s hand in mine, squeezing her fingers with each flare. The only sounds I can hear are the purrs of the remaining stars and our disparate breaths.
We walk into the house and close the front door behind us, the dead of silence greeting us with open arms. Chelsea removes her sweatshirt and tosses it to the floor. I stand behind her and rub her arms, trying to warm her skin with just my fingertips. My lips find the back of her neck, giving her a few quick kisses before she pulls away. She turns around and smiles, returning the kisses with her own.
“I love you,” she says. “Every day I wake up and think I’m dreaming. I think I’m in a recurring nightmare.”
“Me too.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, Chelsea. All I’m thinking about is staying alive.”
She sighs and shoves her hands into her front jean pockets. “I have a horrible feeling that this isn’t the right place for us to be.”
I close my eyes, trying to funnel the warmth from my heart into the rest of my body. “We should be dead right now. We’re lucky that we’re here. We’re lucky that we’re both breathing, sleeping, eating and spending time together.”
“I know. I’ll just never get used to this place.”
A shiver slithers up my legs and creeps into my spine. Cold dominates the room, a swoop of electric frost sticking to the windows. I look outside and the lightshow has ended, the night skies just an infinite coverlet of black.
#
Los Angeles was buried under a mile-high wave of water. Planes fell from the sky like birds hunted on a crisp autumn day. We were lucky enough to be on the road after visiting Chelsea’s parents in Salt Lake City. We kept driving north until we couldn’t hear the screams anymore, the chilling voices of a dying race. I can’t remember the last time we saw the sun, the last time I sat outside with a smile.
#
The radio stopped broadcasting noise three weeks ago. Until then, I’d spend every morning scrolling through the frequencies, eager to hear even the most subtle of human voices. The FM stations were mostly all static, a few transmitting barebones silence. Chelsea would sit next to me, biting her fingernails and hoping to hear any signs of life beyond our own private world.
What startled us even more than the lack of existence was on the AM frequencies: each station played the same odd hum that fell from the stars. Its drone almost hypnotic, we sat close to each other as I fumbled through each frequency, the only sounds sneaking from the speakers making our skin crawl with terrible delight. I didn’t want to know what the sounds meant, didn’t want to decode the throbbing waves recoiling on each side of my brain.
I switched the dial back to FM and felt an abnormal comfort with the resonance of static.
I haven’t looked at the radio since. I sit with a plastic cup filled with vodka and warm cranberry juice, staring at the dusty shelves around the basement, each adorned with cans and cans of vegetables, fruit and beans. I know that at some point down the road we’re going to run out of food, but my mind hasn’t thought that far ahead into our future. I don’t want to know what’s going to happen the day we need to leave the house to find food and water.
Chelsea jogs down the stairs, her boots clicking against aged wood. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just wanted to sit somewhere for a bit where there were no windows.”
“Dinner’s ready. Why don’t you come upstairs and eat with me?”
I force a smile and finish my drink, crumbling the paper cup and tossing it to the floor. It lands next to a lawnmower covered with grime. I follow Chelsea up the steps, closing the basement door behind me and locking it.
We eat a mix of baked beans and creamed corn, each of us filling our glasses with one of the many bottles of wine that were hidden away in the kitchen cabinets. Chelsea’s cheeks fill with red spots and I know that she was drinking while she cooked dinner. Her eyes are watery, broken emeralds shimmering with a thin layer of tears. I don’t ask if she’s okay. I finish my plate and split it in half, paper snapping us out of our quiet trances.
Chelsea still at the table, I leave and open another bottle of wine. A big gulp flowing down my throat, I head into the living room, plopping down on the couch like I’ve worked a twelve-hour day. Long sips and long gazes before I’m lost somewhere in the fuzzy confines of slumber.
#
Chelsea’s scream floats from the corners of a dream world, clouds hiding urgency. My eyes open to the reality of her desperate pleas and before I realize it I’m on my feet and running into the kitchen. Chilly air flows freely from the broken kitchen window, angora curtains shifting from side to side in a violent motion.
Chelsea is huddled in the corner, hair draped over her face like she’s hiding from the outside world. I grab her by the arm and pull until she’s running behind me. We run into the bedroom and slam the door. “Stay in here. I’m going back out there.”
I pull the closet door open and snatch the gun on the shelf, clicking the safety off and glaring at Chelsea before leaving her. She reaches for the shotgun under the bed and crawls into the corner of the room. It all happens in slow motion. I ease my steps from the hallway into the kitchen, careful to not let my boots squeak against the wooden floor.
The gun aimed in front of me, I swing into the kitchen and see a black figure hop from behind the table and into the living room. My breaths panicked and heavy, I follow it until the shadow disappears. All I can see is a figure draped in black, not an inch of skin peeking from its clothing. A quick burst of red and I’m on the floor, pain wriggling the nerves in my face, gun thrown too many feet away from me. Through hazy vision, its legs scuttle past me and I hear the breaking of glass.
I roll over and onto my feet and hurry into the kitchen, leaving the gun on the carpeted floor behind me. Nothing but the hurried stream of air sliding against my face, I lean over the sink and look out the broken window, careful not to scrape my chest on the battered glass. The night whistles with uncertain glee, the intruder long gone by now. The blood dripping from my nose leaks into my mouth and it tastes like tinfoil.
I knock twice on the bedroom door, Chelsea barely opening it. I see a bit of dirty blonde hair, fingernails digging into the door. “Stay in here,” I say. “I need to board up the kitchen window.” I can’t hear what she says before I turn the knob to me and pull with all of my force.
Two markings are engraved into the kitchen table. A silver streak crosses a longer stripe of red, making an upside-down ‘V.’ I shudder and force myself to walk away.
The basement is darker than the skies outside. I stumble down the stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet. Fumbling through the trash on the floor next to the generator, I find a piece of wood much larger than the size of the window. I don’t have time to keep searching so I throw it by the bottom of the stairs and find the toolbox we keep on top of the refrigerator. Another crash upstairs, not nearly as loud as the one before. A gunshot rings and blows past the silence of the basement. I let out a muffled scream, the moan of a frightened child.
I reach the top of the basement stairs and see my love covered in blood, crimson spots dancing on her white t-shirt. Smoke glides from the hot barrel and disappears into the ceiling. Chelsea falls to the floor, dropping the shotgun. The sound of her crying is the loudest noise I’ve ever heard in my life.
The body is crumpled against one of the kitchen chairs, its legs curled. I can see that it’s an older man with hair the color of polished brass. His eyes are open and his chest is absent of breaths. Black and torn fabric reveals multiple patches of freshly penetrated skin.
“He pushed open the bedroom door,” Chelsea says. “I shot him, Konrad. I had to shoot him.”
I reach for her hand and she grips it harder than she ever has before. Holding on to her, I reach for the man’s wrist. His heart has stopped beating and his cold, dead body left this world with a filthy stare at my wife.
“Go get a towel and clean off. Now.”
She runs to the bathroom. I push the man’s eyelids down, flaps of skin covering the coldest stare to grace this lonely house. His arms are as heavy as tree trunks and it’s tough to pull him out of the kitchen. I let the body fall down the basement stairs, watching the skull smack the concrete wall, bits of blood smearing the marine blue stone. I trot along the steps, finding the toolbox and sheet of wood.
Running back upstairs, I drop it on the kitchen floor and slam the basement door behind me. Chelsea is in the bathroom, wearing a lacy pink bra. She sits against the sink, head down and solemn. Her soiled t-shirt is crumpled in the trash barrel amidst a mess of wet paper towels. I put my arms around her and press my lips against her forehead. Her sweat is sweet, like sugar water.
It only takes me five minutes to board up the window. When I’m done, I take a swig of wine and drink until it spills out of my mouth and drips on my shirt and the floor. It takes me a few moments to collect myself and realize what happened over the last ten minutes. I ease into one of the kitchen’s chairs and finish the bottle of wine before letting my mind calm to the tune of the nighttime’s ambient melody.
#
Chelsea stands next to the living room window, the hands of a woman gracing the shotgun like it was a sleeping child. She watches the trees sway back and forth, waiting for any sign of movement in the darkness surrounding the house. I drift in and out of consciousness, eyes following Chelsea in the silent filmstrip of my mind. Before long, I sit up and she’s gone, leaving me with a square portrait of absolute black. The wine leaves pulses of tenderness beating just behind my eyes, the remains of a violent evening.
I slip out of the living room, ignoring patterns of candlelight dancing against the hallway floor. Footsteps are gentle and slide against the linoleum floor in a seamless motion. I stand before the basement door and take a deep breath before opening it. The steps come slowly, my boots lending weight until the wood creaks with an awkward moan.
The intruder’s body is slouched at the bottom of the stairs. His eyelids are still closed, the fury once raging in his arms and legs now dormant in insipid skin. I poke his chest with a bitter finger and wince, part of me expecting that the corpse will return to full life. His pants are thick and soiled and smell like fresh dirt. I search his two pockets and find nothing. The head tilts to the side when I remove my hand. I jump back in reaction, each thud of my heart nearly popping through my ribcage. I stand up and notice the black marks on the left side of his neck. Leaning down, I see the amateur tattoo scrawled into the skin. It’s a sideways V and at this very moment all I can picture is Chelsea crying in her room, clutching the eggshell white blankets while trails of veins fill with anxious blood.
I kick the body once, twice. It doesn’t move. Curses fill the room and my eyes start to water. I wipe away the discharge, running up the basement stairs and letting the cool indoor air graze past my cheeks as it shoves the door shut behind me. Ovals of light my guide, I follow them until I reach the bedroom door. Chelsea sleeps on the very edge of the bed, like a frightened dog. I’m careful not to startle her as I kick off my boots and fall into the mess of pillows and blankets.
The world rages on outside of our house and all I can do is let the tears flow as I nestle my head next to the golden curls of my wife’s hair.
#
Two days have passed and neither of us has ventured outside. It’s only now that I’ve learned to accept the radiance of noise crinkling in the night sky, its mellow drone sliding into my ears in hypnotic fashion. Chelsea lies naked under the sheet and says that she can’t hear it anymore.
“How?”
“All I can hear is the shotgun blast,” she says. “The weight of his body slamming against the kitchen chairs.”
I nod and understand that to kill someone is to accept seeing the person’s face every time you close your eyes. Chelsea turns to me with the look of desperation, eyes eager to confess their sins with only a single glance. The bed sheets barely cover her body up to her chest.
“This isn’t going to last forever,” she says.
I won’t answer her. Instead, I stare at the collection of stains on the bedroom ceiling, follow the collection with my hand as more words creep out of her mouth. I say nothing and get out of bed, waiting a moment before putting on my jeans and t-shirt.
“Please listen to me,” Chelsea says. “We have to think about leaving. I don’t want to die.”
Head down, I let my toes curl against the carpet. It takes all of my willpower to stay silent, but only a phrase escapes my lips. “We’re not going anywhere.”
I blow out the candle on the dresser and find my boots, ignoring the waves of sound pounding on my skull. Chelsea closes the door after I leave. I sit at the kitchen table, my fingernails trying to pick off the dry chips of black and red paint. I don’t know the interpretation of the symbol but every time I see it I know that Chelsea’s right. It’s not safe here anymore but leaving the mountains will only guarantee that both of our lives will end under harsh circumstances.
It’s only a matter of time before whoever’s outside will break in again.
It’s only a matter of time before death comes knocking again.
I find another bottle of wine buried behind rows of canned vegetables. Jade glass covers blood red liquid and before I pop open the cork, Chelsea grabs the bottle from me and smashes it to the ground. Tiny shards split and waltz into the air, drops of merlot splashing against banana-colored linoleum. She’s taking deep breaths, small breasts sulking under a thin layer of purple fabric. She shakes her head, disappointment rising from white knuckles.
She clenches her teeth and leaves the kitchen. For a moment her aura floats behind her, a simple pattern of translucent lace crawling into the air. I rub my eyes, letting leftover sleep dig into my retinas. “Chelsea…”
She doesn’t answer and within a matter of seconds I hear the bedroom door crash with unbridled might. I sigh and start to clean up the mess on the kitchen floor. Paper towels soak up the dirty residue of wine, leaving a trail of orange spots on the kitchen floor. I’m on my knees, dropping the towels into one of the last plastic trash bags we have left when Chelsea walks back into the kitchen, pallid skin drained of every drop of emotion.
Her lips curl and I ask what’s wrong. She just turns her head back to the bedroom, a simple motion that beckons me to follow her. I take her hand and she leads me through darkness and into the bedroom where our bodies are lit by an array of lights. I step away from Chelsea and edge closer to the bedroom window, my hand shoving away the few inches covered by curtains. The moon hovers amongst the night sky, a bright eye looking down upon a scarred planet. In a matter of moments, the moon’s center pops in a vivid flash. It looks like a giant orange rose set to fire, purple streaks entwined with space glitter and tinges of silver.
Chelsea presses her body against mine but I barely notice. “Oh my God,” she says. She squeezes the loose ends of my t-shirt, tugging on the cloth like a child clutching its father. We stand for what feels like hours, watching the celestial destruction unfold in the sky. Gold light spills into the room and for a moment I look away, my vision locked on Chelsea’s tranquil face. The green in her eyes mixes with shimmering moonlight, like emeralds floating in a sea of melting bronze.
I pull Chelsea to the bed, my hands on her hips. Breaths of sorrow take flight from my lips as flickers of dust begin to drop from the remaining stars. Chelsea lies next to me and a frightening calm creeps into my chest, every heartbeat forcing hair to stand on end. Her body nuzzled against me, we eventually drift into a dreamless slumber, an outline of igniting flowers burnt to the backdrop of our eyelids.
#
I sit up in bed, alone and tired. The blankets are crumpled at the edge of the bed. I reach over to the opposite side of the bed, expecting my hand to be greeted with the warmth of Chelsea’s skin. Fingers find nothing but cool sheets and my own shadow. My stomach growls, feeding off of the remains of slumber. I force myself out of bed and close the curtains.
I stumble out of the bedroom and walk into the kitchen. The large board surprises me and after a few seconds I remember what happened a couple nights ago. Chelsea isn’t in the kitchen or in the living room. After checking the bathroom, a chilly wind lurches into my bones. The front door is wide open, the air barely able to rustle its sturdy frame. In a moment of panic, I grab the gun from our bedroom and run outside, my boots scraping against the dirt trail. The moon is nowhere to be found, replaced by a swash of stars the color of morning bruises. I see her hair tossed by a winter wind, whorls of curly locks spattered in multiple directions. The gun stuck inside the back of my jeans, I jog to Chelsea and stop just a few feet away from her.
She stands with her arms covering her stomach. I take a step next to her and whisper into her ear. “Chelsea, honey, are you okay?”
She closes her eyes in response, violet eyeliner gleaming with spatters of glitter. She takes a deep breath and takes a step forward, closer to the edge of rocks. Ashen swirls of mist circle around us and when I try to slide a hand into her crossed arms she pushes me away. “We can’t live like this any longer. It’s not worth it.”
“Chelsea, please. Come back inside the house and we’ll talk.”
She shakes her head, moving her arms to the side and opening her eyes. “No, I don’t want to go back in there. I’m not going to waste away in there.”
Chelsea steps further, her pink sneakers now hugging the slab of grey rocks. Another few inches and she could fall. She starts to speak again but my arms are already around her waist, lifting her into the air. She kicks away the mist rising from the decaying mountain stream, screaming at the top of her lungs. The noise rattles the bones in my face. She attempts to fight her way out of my grip the entire walk back to the house. I set her down at the set of four concrete stairs at the bottom of the front door.
“Calm down, please.”
She lets her head fall and starts to cry, thick tears falling from her face and smacking the stone beneath our feet. I kneel in front of her, placing my hands on the sides of her head, soft rumples of hair touching my skin.
“What’s wrong?”
Chelsea sniffles and looks at me, smudges of mulberry wet with salt and sorrow. Her frown is almost icy and I have to look away. She holds onto my hand and I can barely hear what she says under the whine of my own thoughts.
Blood in my heart quickens and in seconds Chelsea’s eyes glow with the reflection of scattered fireflies.
#
Chelsea sleeps with her head on my chest. I can remember the first night we slept together. She was twenty-three years old and it took every ounce of resistance to keep myself from proposing after only a week of dating. Only a couple of years later, we’re sitting alive after the earth’s funeral with a baby baking in her womb. She said that it wouldn’t be fair to raise a child in this new world. Wouldn’t be fair to bring life into a world that was so filled with death.
She wanted to end her own life to avoid creating a new one. She said I was the reason she didn’t jump into the remains of the river. I was the reason why she wanted to continue to live.
I ease myself out of her grasp and head into the kitchen, careful not to wake her. The wine calls out to me but even in celebration I know that the sweet taste of alcohol wouldn’t be respectful. I pour a small glass of water and sit at the kitchen table, wondering if the ideas running through my head were the same ones my own father experienced so many years ago.
The liquid soothes my throat. I sit for a few minutes more, trying to ignore the remains of the intruder’s etching scrawled into the surface of the kitchen table. My palm slides over the markings and a slight chill runs up my arm and into the muscles. I finish the water and drop the glass into the sink next to a growing pile of filthy china.
“Hey baby,” Chelsea says.
I’m alarmed at the tinny peep in her voice and turn around with a fist. “Sorry, I didn’t think you were awake.”
She smiles and sits at the table, rolling the sleeves of her sweater past her wrists to the middle of her hand. “It’s okay. We’ve been on edge since we found this place.”
I sit next to her and she immediately curls her fingers over my hand. Her cheeks are as red as poinsettias. “We’re having a baby,” she says with a grin. “A baby.”
“I know.” My voice twinkles with the type of delight that neither of us have experienced before.
I’m just about ready to ask Chelsea what she wants for dinner when I hear a screeching bang in the living room. We both stand up, the light of terror sprinkled in our eyes. “Not again,” I say. I rush to the bedroom, Chelsea behind me, and grab the shotgun. It hasn’t been touched since she shot the intruder just days ago. It feels powerful in my arms, almost a living, breathing entity soaking up the weight of my arms.
“Stay here, I’ll be right back.”
Chelsea closes and locks the door behind me. Long strides to the living room turns into a full run, another snapping crunch striking the walls. The front door is shoved off its hinges before I’m there, bolts and screws tossed into the night air. Three figures stand before me, each dressed in black. I raise the shotgun but before I can pull the trigger I’m brought to the ground by someone behind me. His hands knock the shotgun across the living room floor and in only a second I feel the clout of a wooden plank against my face.
“Get the girl,” one of them says.
Springs of pain rush into my eyes, my cheekbones. My breaths are panicked and all I can see are flickering spots of white. The man keeps his arms on mine, movement stifled by his grimy body. The three other shapes walk past me and into the kitchen. I can barely see them now, only wads of black against the blood dripping into my eyes. Chelsea’s apocalyptic scream pierces the air and everything is starting to fade away.
The last thing that comes across my vision is my wife’s body dragged across the carpeted floor, her golden hair now just a distant memory.
Jarring flashes of pewter poke me out of sleep. I turn over to see the shotgun leaning against the loveseat in the corner of the living room. My tongue finds a small hard object in my mouth. I spit it out and see it’s one of a few teeth that are missing from my jaw.
Moonlight drips into the room through the broken living room window and I say one name before shouting as loud as I’ve ever had before. Chelsea.
I frantically run to each part of the house, the basement. She’s not here and after a few seconds I remember the figures dragging her across the floor. My wife, my love. Gone.
My father used to say that men’s tears were a different color than women’s. I look in the bathroom mirror and see a torrent of salty water shooting from my eyes, each arc of every tear burning the bruises and cuts in my battered face. They look darker, as if my glands started producing secretion as black as motor oil. I can’t feel my heart beating and I could die right here in the bathroom, clutching my heart while calling out the names of everyone I’ve ever known.
There’s only one name I need to hear and I don’t have the strength to speak it out loud again.
I leave the bathroom and stagger into the kitchen, try to picture Chelsea cooking at the stove, a tight white t-shirt cut just below the belly button. My eyes closed, I walk into the living room and feel the chill of a winter breeze. The front door lies on the floor, digging into the carpet. The outside air is cold and unforgiving and when I see their symbol splattered against the front entrance’s landing I kneel to the ground. They took my wife but I wish they had taken me instead. My child could be breathing, unknowing of the world outside his mother’s skin.
I take a few steps along the sandy trail, kicking dirt into the air. The ethereal hum of the stars is gone, replaced by lifeless silence. I walk around the house twice before going back inside, stepping on the front door as I enter. I expect to see Chelsea leaning into the living room, swinging by one arm gracing the edge of the entryway.
I’m greeted by nothing except a blood-stained carpet and regret.
A familiar shine hops across the kitchen walls and I remember the nights when Chelsea would read by candlelight, her legs crossed and head perched by a fist. Her hair would hang over her eyes and I would always ask how she could see in between the long, frosty curls.
The bedroom smells like burnt cinnamon. I notice the tip of something small and brown placed in the center of the bed. It’s a bag made of burlap, tied with dirty brown string. It feels like two squishy marbles and I drop it to the floor, not wanting to open it. Deep breaths eclipse a wearied heart and I force myself to pick it up and open it.
The string comes undone with a simple twitch and the bag falls apart in my hands, each corner easing open. What I hold is something that I’ve stared at for too many months. What I hold is the beautiful siren that lured me to my wife in the very beginning. What I hold convinces me that she’s far away and dead.
I bring my hand to my face and Chelsea’s eyes glare back at me, devoid of life and filled with the lost echoes of hope. Red strands of muscle squiggle out of the bloody sheath and I drop them to the ground, hoping that my skull will collapse and fill my brain with the music of the departed.
I just held my wife’s eyes in my hands and now I know that I’ll never see her again. Her life was wasted in this new world.
Bed sheets holding my body, I slide into the pillows and try to remember Chelsea’s voice. I can only hear it if I close my eyes. Lips kiss the edge of the pillow, my drool spilling onto the soft fabric of my wife’s pillow. It still smells like her. With a last ounce of vigor, my legs find the bedroom floor and I blow out the candle, the syrupy aroma of butterflies arousing the air around me. Through the darkness, I make my way into the closet, throwing her jeans and old blouses aside. The handgun is cold to the touch. I wrap my fingers around the handle and shut the bedroom door, forever leaving the scent of Chelsea behind me.
#
The stars mock me as I walk along the trail at the front of the house. I look to the sky with eyes of rage, blaming them for the demise of life and love. The only sound penetrating the night air is the scraping of my boots against dirt and rock.
The gun is jammed in the back of my jeans. I wait until I reach the back of the house to pull it out, holding it high in front of me, both hands aiming it towards the moon. I stand before the rock where Chelsea and I confirmed our love for each other, the exact spot where we were married. I toss the gun to the ground and it lands in a bed of lifeless flowers, slate gray metal slamming against the only withered petals that didn’t blow away in the wind.
I kneel into the rock, my face pressed against the lone crevasse in the middle of the weathered stone. A steady flow of tears falls and coats the rock.
I cry for my mother and father, my little brother who was in college when it all went to hell. My grandparents were deep beneath the ground and were spared the wrath of destruction. I think of Chelsea and the tears stop. I remember the promise I made to her and realize that I broke it into a million little pieces. Wiping my face, I reach over and pick up the gun, gaze at it for a minute. I never owned a weapon until we found this house.
Wind whips at my back, my thin jacket flapping and smacking against the skin. I peel it off and throw it to the side, watch it drift against the edge of rocks and fall over, the outline of my soul descending with it as it disappears into whatever is left of the river below the mountains.
I kick off my sneakers, shake the dirt and sand out of the soles before I throw them over the side of the mountain. The black rubber blends with the darkness and soon they’re out of sight. Sitting on the rock, my toes push away a pile of dead leaves. They crumble into a pile of dark green dust and blow away.
My legs hanging over the front of the rock and my back to the open air, I shove the gun in my mouth, teeth clamping down on the barrel. My tongue licks the bottom of the metal, a strange flavor that reminds me of overcooked coffee. Bits of rain descend from whatever clouds lurk behind a wall of black static. They hit my swollen face and the wetness comforts the cuts and bruises.
I hum a song to say goodbye, the last tune of my life will be built on my own accord. Chelsea’s voice joins me and my finger rests against the trigger. I can feel the rising mist sneak up my t-shirt, colliding with sweat and sticking to my back.
Eyes open to take a final view of the world and I can see Chelsea walk along the trail. She’s wearing all white, a skirt ending just above the knee. Her silhouette disappears as slivers of lightning begin to pierce the horizon. I’m left with just my shadow.
I scoot over closer to the edge of the rock, hoping that when the bullet shatters the back of my skull, gray matter and bits of bloodied bone will tumble down the mountain and hit the ground before my body does.
I’m ready, Chelsea.
Just when I’m about to end it a fluffy shape of white enters my vision. It comes closer, stopping at the edge of the woods before I can see what it is. The rabbit, fur as virginal as a summer morning, grey blotch shaped like a heart on its chest. It scoots over to me, only an inch away from my toes. It sniffs the bottom of my foot and for a moment I swear its tiny eyes glance up at me.
I look up to the sky, say her name only once. Wherever she is, I know she’s smiling. I know she’s holding our child, giving it a kiss on the forehead for me.
Lips grow cool from the barrel of the gun and I pull it out of my mouth, gently rest it on my lap. The rabbit scampers away, hops into the woods and disappears. A smile finds its way across my face.
Standing up, I turn to the edge of the mountain. Fog makes way for the gun as I toss it as far as I can, watching the little black dot fade into a cloud of incandescence. I imagine the sun setting for Chelsea, for me, a veil of grey embracing the remains of a world that took everything away.
This is only the beginning.