Short & Serial Stories
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The Reading | Hybrid | Dust
Thriller/Fantasy | Adult
The Reading
The Reading
© 2024 Jacqueline Jones. All rights reserved.This work may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or transmitted in any form._
Kiss those you hate.
Family gorges on me, a dolled-up meat slab in thousands of euros worth of couture. My lips, numb from the pretense, pucker unnaturally to wine red lipstick ridges, sticky and stiff.
I peck my sister's hollow cheeks, buccal fat removed ages ago. "Natalia, you look well," I lie. She's more plastic, titanium, and Botox fillers than human at this point. She's also last to arrive, makes a production of squeezing a black obsidian stone–for protection and healing–into my hands, and lingers on her second cheek kiss.
"Bonsoir, Selene," she says, teeth too white against tanned orange skin, glaring at me. "You look," hate flits in blue eyes dulled with age, "young."
I follow her hunched movements to the only unoccupied chair of three in front of me. She places her brass walking stick at an angle next to her, liver spotted hands clutching its curved handle. Is unaffected when its ferrule jabs our older brother Erik's black Ferragamo shoe.
He scrapes his foot away from it, plump lips pursed, but he's silent. They don’t talk to each other. Not anymore.
"You've got us here," my very American, very ruddy-faced, very unremarkable cousin Marcus says. "Now what?"
They all look at me for an answer, never at each other. Not anymore.
The expansive drawing room smells of orange zest and cigars, pork belly and incense. Of dinner and dancing long over, a brash affair the night before celebrating a life well lived–a life lived. I'd drunk good wine and eaten delectable food, danced in heels till my soles bled, laughed till my sides ached, and cried with chosen family until tears deserted. With nothing left of myself to give, I'd sent everyone away, except my lawyer.
"Selene?" Natalia prods, white knuckles contrasting her ghastly tan. “Must we guess?”
My smile's as fake as her newest nose. "I've spent the last weeks putting my affairs in order and I want to–"
"Affairs in order?" Erik parrots. He looks decades younger than Natalia, heavy dark eyebrows favour our late father, the rest of him–an uncle long dead at father's hand.
"Yes brother," I say, patient as I can muster. "A thing you would understand if you ever accounted for the children you've sired and left to rot."
He scowls, jaw tense. Spittle flies my way when he speaks next. "Had mama the good sense to leave the family fortune to me, the eldest, instead of you, I wouldn't have to scrape pennies to get by. I cannot give what I don't have."
Natalia laughs, a croaky, choked thing. Breaks a thirty-year silence. "I'd hardly call lavish apartments in Kensington and offshore business interests scraping pennies, Erik." She glowers at me, a wrinkled orange purged of its juice. "What about me?" she asks, whipping her cane against the stone floor. "I live hand-to-mouth, surviving on the measly quarter million euros a year provided by my precious, little sister."
If I didn't know better I'd swear the obsidian she gave me grows hot in my hand with her vitriol. I grip it tighter, knowing what comes next will make this affair worse.
"A stipend sounds nice," Marcus' smile is serpentine. "Seems only siblings are favoured with the de Gramont wealth," he cocks his head. "Eh, Selene?"
Natalia doesn’t let that slide either. “Your settlement from our inheritance was enough to buy and sell countries, your folly pissed it away.”
The door behind us opens, and I turn, relieved when I see Arthur Merriman–my lawyer, enter. He's in his forties, lanky, ginger, efficient and practical–his shoes more expensive than his suit, his watch more expensive than both. He’s holding a remote control.
"Everything is as you've requested Madame," he says, though I look younger than he does.
I remember the days of mademoiselle, of being a teenager, of spilling my twenties on heartbreak and vices. Then the early days of madame, of travelling the world, marriage and divorce, of barrenness and heartbreak. Of life eternal.
Not anymore.
"What's this now?" Erik asks, brows beetling suspiciously.
"Who is this interloper?" Natalia echoes.
I nod at Arthur. At my silent command, he clicks one of the remote’s buttons and dims the lights, cloaking him in shadow ‘til he steps into a single pool.
"This is Arthur, a dear friend," I say, joining him. "He'll be conducting the reading at my behest."
"Reading?" Natalia murmurs, her cast iron façade slipping.
"Good evening," Arthur says, with all the melody of a hardened German speaking practised English.
"Come cousin, you've had your stage play," Marcus says, leaning forward. "Can we reach the point?"
Arthur and I exchange a glance, the smile I give him more genuine than anything in this room.
After an elongated pause, Arthur begins his spiel. My spiel really–words crammed into elegant legalese. Words explaining my death, what would happen to my vast fortune billions of euros strong.
I half-listen, his talents for memorisation and oratorical prowess giving me no reason to doubt the contents. Most of my attention is on my siblings and cousin, their rapt attention enthralling, as realisation dawns.
"These are the terms," Arthur ends, stepping back into the shadows.
Erik stands slowly, frown deepening. "You aren't serious?" His fists knot. He takes two charged steps towards me.
Before he can reach me with violence, I lunge at him. Smack his chest hard with the back of a palm. His dark eyes widen in surprise, ribs break. He heaves uneven breaths, slumping to the ground. Droplets of black blood sputter from his lips.
Natalia's unmoved as our brother writhes in pain at her feet. "That money is for all of us," she says, lips twitching. "You have no right to–"
"I have every right," I snap, smoothing errant hair back.
"You aim to take the money to the grave," Marcus asks, incredulous. "Think you’re a Pharaoh?"
"Have you not been listening, cousin?"
"As if anyone could follow your lackey robot," he shouts, grimacing in Arthur's direction.
"It’s really quite simple,” I begin. “I've lived far too long and need rest. Most revenants like us aren’t privileged enough to avoid fatal perils as we have.”
"Speak for yourself," Natalia says, eyes wet with crocodile tears.
At her feet Erik groans, healing slowly, but surely.
"You chose to refuse the gift, Natalia." Marcus surprises me by speaking directly to her. Thirty years later.
Tears trickle down her cheeks. She sniffs, more a snort, through her botched rhinoplasty. "I had everything to live for back then," she whimpers. "I could not imagine being dead."
"Undead," I correct. "Dead with an edge."
"And now you," Marcus stands, jabs a finger, but doesn't make a move towards me. "Now you want to throw it all away for what? Because you're tired?"
"Have you not been listening, cousin?" I ask again. "I wish to throw it all away to be dead. To taste air, smell rain, feel pain, no more."
Erik grunts, red-faced, and drags himself over to his chair. Leans against it, sweat puddling in skin creases. "Doesn't," he coughs, "doesn't mean–"
"The rest of us should suffer in poverty,” Marcus finishes.
"I will repeat, for those hard of hearing." I roll my neck, getting kinks out. "You will be well-provided for in the amount suitable to maintain your lifestyles for the next decade." I tilt my chin at Natalia, her time most limited. "This should suit you nicely sister.” Look over at the others. "You can use this boon to increase your already staggering wealth, perhaps, do some good."
Natalia wipes her eyes on an embroidered handkerchief that's appeared from the folds of her pleated skirt. She looks at me, disheartened. "I'm ready now," she says. "Make me what you are, so I can live on." Her next words are a whisper. "Unlike you Selene, I never wish to die."
I fold my lips in as the sister I looked up to as a child, who, jealous of mama and papa's attention to their youngest, had no use for me for most of my life, now pleads for a chance.
"Don't be stupid," Erik huffs, pushing himself up into his chair. "You'd never survive the change in your state."
It's cruelty and the finality–when she looks at me and sees the truth of his words in my eyes–elicits real tears.
It's also the first thing he's said to her since they and my cousin conspired to kill our parents, and succeeded, thirty years ago.
Her brittle body trembles, quietly weeping for a life near its end.
I’m eager to have them gone, to have this be done.
"Your mind cannot be changed?" Marcus asks.
I shake my head.
"And the rest of the money, it goes where?" Erik follows.
I sigh. "To beneficiaries of my choosing."
Erik releases a string of curses, most of them aimed at his whore of a sister, the one screwing everyone's plans up without remorse.
When he's tired himself out, broken bones setting quicker than I'd like, my plastic smile spreads over lipstick stained lips. "We will never meet again in this life," I say. "And I have given you more than you deserve."
Marcus scoffs, nose upturned. "Scraps fit only for dogs."
I ignore him. "But I do it to secure my own karma." I squeeze the obsidian stone still locked in my palm.
"What you do here is wicked, sister, more evil than anything I could imagine one could do to flesh and blood."
More evil than patricide? Matricide? I wonder. My sister's smudged eye makeup from fresh tears gives me my answer.
"Arthur," I call.
"Madam?" He's at my side in moments, not a revenant, but not quite human either.
"See them out."
"Yes, Madam." He whispers something else to me, something that makes my head hurt and stomach curl, but I nod.
"You're really going to throw us out on the streets after that?" Marcus asks, anger creasing his brow.
I take a step forward and he hurries away. They’ve never been as strong as I am–being the youngest when I was made revenant has its advantages.
Arthur tries to guide Erik from his seat. "Hands off me troll," he says, turning to me with narrowed gaze. "My lawyers will shred this shit to pieces, just you wait." He says no more, storming off in a huff of dad's stride and uncle's big feet.
Natalia takes her time rising, reminding me of Italian grandmothers hobbling to funerals. She looks at me, pearly white veneers revealed in a debutante’s smile. "I am glad you will be dead," she says. "Your youth can torment me no more."
I watch her leave. Hear the far door–oak and heavy, close behind her.
It isn’t long before I hear the shouts, the strangled screams, the scuffle as Arthur, my friend, my lawyer, kills the three remaining members of my family. Natalia would have been easy, I surmise, the other two tougher. Revenants aren't easy to kill, but Arthur – not quite revenant, not quite human, is even less so.
As quiet descends, I sink into the chair not long ago occupied by my elder sister. Lean back, enjoying the peace. I won't die this day. That lie in the reading, told to see if my family's greed could be thwarted with even a whisper of change in their morality, a semblance of empathy, of penance, or anything other than what led to my beloved parents' deaths. Yet, when it mattered most, even that they could not muster.
Instead of staying my hand for a moment longer, the revenge I’ve wanted and resisted for thirty years bared its claws today.
Now, the day I won’t die, is the day they all have.
Perhaps if I’m lucky I won’t face true death for some time. Until then, I live with vengeance's burden no more.
No more.
_Read AgainRead HybridRead DustBack to Creative Studio
Science Fiction/Thriller | Serial Story
Hybrid
Hybrid
© 2015 Jacqueline Jones, updated 2026. All rights reserved.
This work may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or transmitted in any form.
For my mum, who enjoys movies like this story and would watch this one before she reads.
_
Part 00: The Child
Central Research Facility
Tierreichinsel, Undisclosed Man-made Archipelago
24-03-2024
Nestled in a far corner of a cluttered biology lab, an incubator half-filled with soil stirred with life. Amoeba oozed in it, feeding on artificial nutrients introduced some days prior. A dark-haired scientist drifted into the room carrying a newborn baby boy, still wailing after sudden departure from his mother’s womb. The scientist’s forehead puckered at the disarray and she made a mental note to chastise her subordinates.
For now, you’re much more important, she thought, cradling the infant closer to her blood-soaked surgical gown.
Reaching the incubator, she punched in a series of numbers, bloody fingers smearing it red. The incubator hissed as it opened, revealing a collection of squirming red and black striped isopods sensitive to the bright overhead lights. Their tunnelling created narrow pathways in the dark-brown soil that they sped to burrow into.
Seeing her window of opportunity closing, the scientist quickly, but gently, placed the baby on top of the soil. His cries grew louder, premature weight and size, nothing against his powerful lungs.
“Shhh, shhh, little one,” the scientist whispered, lightly brushing her palm along the infant’s tiny arm. “It’ll be alright soon.”
The isopods, sensing a foreign presence in their burrow, investigated. They crawled awkwardly towards the child, creeping over arms and legs, clinging to his torso. Over time, they massed over him, leaving just his head uncovered. The baby stopped crying, soothed by the isopods’ unnatural swaddle and slowly drifted to sleep, sucking on his tongue.
Smiling, the scientist entered new digits to close the incubator. She turned as the lab door slid open.
Her second, Dr Reiner Evion, a young, Spanish neurologist, approached her apologetically. “Sorry Dr Gambit, I didn’t want to disturb you during the incubation.”
Dr Gambit discarded her bloody gloves and bloodier gown. Underneath, grey slacks and a yellow silk blouse had escaped most of the splatter. She massaged her cocoa brown wrists and hands, alleviating a dull ache. Only a few more surgeries like that left in me.
“It’s okay Reiner,” she said, heading over to a sink to scrub her hands. “Have you dealt with the mother?”
“Yes, the team’s put her back with the others for recovery,” he said, “but that’s not what I came to tell you.”
She moved her hands from under the faucet’s sensors and the water stopped. “What is it?” she asked, drying them with paper towels.
Reiner stiffened. “I thought you’d like to know they’ll be arriving on the next transport so if you want to switch the treatments, you’re going to have to do it today.”
Dr Gambit pumped lotion from a dispenser, looking over at the now sleeping baby. The isopods meanwhile, busied themselves with the task they’d been genetically altered to perform. When the infant woke next, many days from now she surmised, he’d be more than any of them could ever have dreamt.
“Maybe your hesitance indicates you shouldn’t change the rules in this case,” Reiner said, “What we’re doing here is bigger than any one family or—”
“No,” Dr Gambit snapped. “I won’t let my girls go through this without first telling them what’s going to happen.” She turned to him with a steady gaze. “Switch the doses as I’ve instructed.”
A tight-lipped Reiner nodded. “Very well.”
“And Reiner?”
“Yes Doctor?”
She held him in a stead gaze. “No one else must know.”
“Of course Dr Gambit, I’ll administer their treatments myself.
Satisfied, she gave him a rare smile. “Good.” Dr Gambit slipped a bio-bracelet programmed for the incubator onto her wrist. “Let’s go, there’s much to be done before our guests arrive.”
_Read AgainRead The ReadingRead DustBack to Creative Studio
Eco-thriller | YA Crossover
Dust
Dust
© 2024 Jacqueline Jones. All rights reserved.
This work may not be reproduced, distributed, sold, or transmitted in any form.
_Counting Helps Sometimes
I'm choking on my spit. Breaths coming too fast.
I palm the triple-glazed window in front of me, dense murkiness beyond its transparent barrier curling my stomach. My skin’s cold, the light cotton jumper I’m wearing heavier than it should feel, weighing me down. I reach for the top button, wrenching it open.
The button pings against scarred wood. I grab for the next tiny plastic disc, fingers uncomfortably numb.
"Count it out."
Dom's advice bleeds into my panic.
"Repeat the numbers ‘til that's all you hear. Until you can't see the endless black, the bottomless deep."
So, I count. Headache already stabbing temples.
One.
Two.
My trembling fingers are still on the button.
Three.
Fou . . .
"Why's it so cold in here?"
Before I can answer, the room's warming. Turning at the sound of my father’s voice, I see him punching fingers against the battery operated temperature control. His thinning eyebrows crouch in a frown, above a nose broken too many times to sit right.
"Where's Dom?" I look around our open concept downstairs living area scanning for my boyfriend–kitchen, living, and dining room sucked into an unpleasant warp of stale, barely filtered air. "He was just here. I heard him."
"You know it stays at twenty-five," my father growls, ignoring my question. He leans in closer to the control's digital face, smashes its face more till my clothes feel like too much for the encroaching heat. He waves his arms around at the indoor fauna. "Keeps the plants alive."
I glance at the wilted selection of snake plants, cacti, and philodendrons, blackened with decay.
"I didn't change it," I say, turning back to him.
"Then who did," he snaps. "Someone must have, it wasn't–"
"It wasn't me." I hold his dark-eyed gaze, daring him to rant, daring him to talk to me in the unhinged way he does with everyone else.
His teeth grit. Eyes narrow. But he's silent. He looks away, hobbling over to the nearest dead plant, muttering to himself as he inspects its disintegrating leaves.
It's always like this. Old ass grumps hating everything live, and the rest? Well, the rest don't.
"Going to find Dom," I say. Papa mutters something, but doesn't look at me. He limps away behind the sheer IKEA issue partition separating the kitchen from the dining room.
"I'll make dinner soon," I call to him, wondering why I bother. Not like he’s eaten anything I’ve made for days. Squinting against lantern light I don't see his shadow moving beyond the divider. Don't hear his leather slip-ons shuffling across the floor.
It's nothing, I tell myself. No less weird than anything else that’s happened lately.
Heading to the door, I keep my face turned away from the glass. Just enough to make myself believe it's not avoidance. To make it seem like the deep dark isn't a nest of despair waiting to swallow me whole.
It’s Alright if We Stay Inside
Just turning my face away never helps. The dirt caked onto every outdoor surface makes me hate our floor to ceiling glass doors and windows present in every room.
"Dom?" I call, heading upstairs. "Are you up there?" Floorboards creak under my weight, every sound louder in the remarkable quiet of a world absent electricity.
I used to love our house. Loved the exhibitionism–the thought that without drawn curtains neighbours could have a look whenever they liked.
It's different now. Much.
Dust storms plagued the world and in a matter of days, thick layers of dust built up everywhere. Couldn't leave the windows or doors open for more than seconds before indoor surfaces were brown with the stuff.
In the beginning, we thought what everyone did–a bad case of Sahara dust. We wiped outdoor glass panes and power washed brick siding, but it didn't stop. Manufacturers of humidifiers and air purifiers made record sales, leading to shortages, until there weren't any more.
Soon dust engulfed us like impenetrable fog–you couldn't tell your feet from your hands, couldn’t drive anywhere, couldn’t walk anywhere. The brown smog descended from pole to pole, many feet deep. Sun couldn't penetrate, neither could rain. It sucked life out of everything and everyone.
"Dom?" I try again, sadness picking at me. I still worry he hates being here with us . . . with me. It's my fault he got stuck here, that he's not with his mum and sisters.
The stair rail meets the wall and my breathing constricts. Light won't reach me for three more steps and the walls already seem like they're inches closer to me than they should be.
"It's okay," I tell myself, chest tightening. Pressing my palms against chipped paint, I force another step, legs shaking. My head swims, arms hook at elbows, the walls feel so close . . .
Eyes squeezed shut I don't even realise I've reached the top. My breathing and heartbeat slow as candlelight from our makeshift wall sconces cast their glow.
"Dom?" I try again, hurrying towards my room.
Mum pops out from one of the bedrooms and I just miss banging into her.
"Slow down love," she says, sparkling laughter on her lips. She's holding a bucket of dirty water, gloved hands smeared with grainy remnants.
"Doing a bit of cleaning mum?" I ask, peering behind her into the room. The farthest wall's freshly scrubbed, yet a tapestry of crushed bone and meat remains.
She shrugs. "Trying to," she sighs. "No matter how much I wash, the smell stays." She tosses her hands up, sprinkles of disinfectant and blood catching me in the face.
"So gross," I say, wrinkling my nose. But she's right. It's miasmic, like fresh pork left too long on the slab.
She laughs. "Oh honey, always so serious." Mum breezes past me, hauling the bucket towards the stairs.
"Wait, mum?" turning, "have you seen Dom?" My eyebrows wrinkle to a frown.
Where is she?
She was just here.
Peering into the room she left behind, it’s empty, walls as cornflower blue as the first day they’d been painted.
Nothing but Dirt
Mum moves fast with that heavy bucket. But, one missing person at a time. Dom's higher on my list.
Wax candles drip to the sconces’ jagged rims, these new additions strange in this former testament to modern living. Papa wanted a state-of-the-art smart home, but mum urged against it. Good thing she did, we'd already be dead if everything we needed relied on the electric.
The candles flicker with as much light as they can give. It's not enough. Each step I take thuds fear deeper.
"Dom?" I pause, listening. Listening in a vacuum where all I can hear is my own breathing. I take some more steps forward, forcing myself towards my bedroom. Our bedroom now. Mine and Dom's.
The door's cracked down the middle, though I don't recall how. It's slightly ajar, darkness like soot oozing from the cleft. My fingers tremble when I reach out, fingertips hot when I touch the door.
Push it open.
My eyes adjust slowly to the dark. The bed's unmade, dust thick on the rug and surfaces, the lone bedroom window is broken open and beneath it, sits Dom. His head's slumped to chest, dirt pouring in slowly from outside, covering his shoulders, chest and lap, and spilling onto his curly dark hair.
"Dom?" I manage to croak out.
He leisurely lifts his head and I swear I hear his neck creaking. He smiles at me, eyes closed, munching on dirt when he speaks. "Buried alive in papa's dream house."
His head drops.
Why did he sound like me? I scream in my head. Why did he have my voice?
I'm shivering, stuck in place. I have to get out, the dirt owns this room now, nothing I can do. It’ll cover Dom, then turn on everything else that used to matter.
I start to hyperventilate, feeling the dirt crumble onto my skin, feeling it suffocate me.
I can't fucking move! Dom's dead body taunting me from across the room. I'm counting to myself, doing whatever the fuck I can to get out of this debilitating situation. Anything to help me run, rush over to him, to figure this out, to hide, to do anything at all.
But all I can do is look out the open window above my boyfriend’s dirty head. Staring into the deep. Terror inching its way to my core.
Kimchi-Flavoured Ramen for Four
One package of Nongshim Kimchi ramen, split four ways. Noodles with sauce and dehydrated veg bubbling away on our two-burner gas stove. Originally only used for camping, it's become a lifesaver.
How did I get down here?
Rationing. Papa says it's the only way we'll get through this alive. The only way to live long enough for the authorities to get all this sorted. To get rid of all the dirt.
Carefully portioning so we each get a good ratio of noodles to broth, I balance the bowls on my arms. Weekends in my hospitality focused, work experience program paying off.
When did I start dinner?
"Alright, food’s ready," I say, placing the bowls down carefully. I half-fill our water glasses, cringing at how little is left in the gallon bottle. There were many when we started, even a batch specifically for the dog.
The dog got lost in the dust weeks ago, and we're down to his last bottle.
Sitting, I wait for the others, steam seeping away as seconds tick. Candles flicker, casting shadows on dirty Scandinavian furniture, ornaments, and dead plants.
"Where are you all?" I shout, agitated. "It's getting cold."
No one's here but you.
The thought sends a sharp pain through my chest. It hurts to breathe. Gripping the table's edge, I lower my forehead to its oak surface. Squeeze my eyes shut. Tears wet my lids, roll down cheeks. Throat tightens.
"Wh-where . . . " laboured breaths, "where ar-are y-y-ou?" through a whispered question. I can't see my family in my head. I don't remember what they look like. What Dom looks like? I can't, I can't, I can't!
My scream catches in my throat, mouth open wide. Pushing back from the table, my chair tips too far back. Eyes snap open and I'm falling. Slamming into the floor.
Shock keeps me motionless for a moment, body aches spreading fast. Pushing myself up, I crack my neck, trying to clear my head. My gaze falls on between the chair legs, to what I couldn’t see before.
Papa's lying dead under the table. He stares at me with clouded eyes, skin mottled, lips blue with frothy yellow crust at the corners. Next to him is the bucket mum had earlier, cleaning cloth wrung dry and hanging over its side. A cleaning cloth I vaguely remember wiping the floor with, scrubbing away his vomit. A bucket I hauled from upstairs then . . .
Doing a bit of cleaning? The thought’s unnerving, and this time, when I try to scream, it launches from my stomach, piercing the quiet.
What Happened Before (According to Her)
There's no real way to tell day and night anymore. I used to keep track, when Dom and I still had a routine–yoga (in our bedroom), breakfast (oatmeal and dog water), studying (cause it was supposed to be over soon), dinner (in our room), and a movie (when we had electricity).
After two months, I just don't care anymore. Neither does papa it seems.
"What I'm saying Ayana," his tone's gruff, "is we can't keep feeding ourselves and your boyfriend." He shakes his head. "He shouldn't even be here."
My cheeks feel hot. "We can't just leave him to fend for himself, how's he supposed to get back to his house in this?" I wave my arms around at the windows where a dust storm wages war.
Papa's nonchalant. "I'll gear him up, get him a good shovel, and he'll be fine," he says. "He's a strong lad."
"You can't do this." Panic's setting in. I know that look on papa’s face–he's not going to cave. I try to appeal to his sense of decency. "Dom wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for me. I was scared, he came over and got stuck with us,” I remind him. “How can we just make him leave?"
Papa stands, lips pressed together. He touches a dying snake plant. "In times like these, we do what we need to in order to survive."
I slump back in my chair. "Our survival always comes first, right? Even if it means leaving everyone else in the dirt." Literally. I scoff. "I didn't before, but now, now I get why mum left. She needed your help and you left her to rot."
His head snaps round, eyes narrowing. "Your mother made her choice months before any of this happened," he snarls. "I wasn't about to put your life in danger to save her from that hedonistic commune she chose to live in."
"Are you serious papa?” I’d laugh if it wasn’t so sad, “It was a co-living flat while she does her PHD, not–"
"Did her PHD," he corrects, plucking dead leaves off. "Tight quarters like that in the cities were the first to go." He looks back at me, a strange smile on his face. "You heard the news."
Air's sucked out of my lungs too fast and I'm coughing, his glee at mum’s demise more than a little unnerving.
I get up too quickly, bang my knee against the table, ignore it. Rushing upstairs, my head pounds, realisation settling in with disgusting clarity.
When I burst into my bedroom, Dom's flipping pages on a comic he's read before. His brown eyes light up when he sees me, smile as happy as the first time we met. It slides away when he sees my face.
"Is everything alright?" he asks, sitting up. Then, worried. "Is dust getting in downstairs?"
"We have to leave," I say, crossing the room to my wardrobe. I pull the door open wide, determining what makes sense to carry and what doesn't.
Dom stands behind me, rubbing my shoulders. "Luv, what's going on? You know we can't go out in this."
I swallow past nerves, maintaining a tenuous hold on calm. "We're not safe here Dom," I turn to him, pleading with my eyes. "You're not safe.” I exhale loudly. “Papa's only ever cared about himself, nothing will change that. But just now, that smile?” I shiver. “It’ll be you first, then he’ll get rid of me next.”
Dom squeezes my shoulders, nudging my forehead with his. "What's got you so agitated?"
Isn’t he listening to me?
He kisses my forehead, lips warm against my skin. "Everything’s alright okay? Just breathe."
I want to stay locked in his arms. There's safety in it. But I can't, not with papa on a mission to get him–us–out.
I wriggle away from him, haphazardly dragging clothes from hangers. "Didn’t you hear me? We’re wasting time Dom. Papa's losing it."
To my surprise, he sits on the bed's edge, mouth downturned.
"What’s wrong with you?" I ask, annoyed. "We have to go now."
"Ayana," he says, not looking up at me. "You've been . . ." Dom sighs, "you haven't been . . . right since this all began, I think you need to–"
"Need to what?" I snap.
I'm not crazy. I've never been crazy! No matter what anyone says.
"Luv, I’m not attacking you, I'm just saying you're not yourself right now and it's affecting . . ." he clears his throat, looks up and holds my gaze. "It's affecting the way you're, urm, you're perceiving things."
Anger rises faster than I can drown it. I rush at him, banging my fists against his chest. "I'm trying to save you from him," I shout. Dom tries to dodge my pummelling. "Can't you see that?"
He holds my wrists tight, stands to his full height of at least four inches taller than I am. His jaw twitches, each syllable of his next words punctuated. "You can't save me from somebody who's not even here!"
You’re the only one here. The thought weasels its way into my head. Gnawing at sanity.
"You're trying to send me mad," I scream. "All of you are."
I wrench my hands away from him. Slam my palms into his chest, strength born of frustration sending him tumbling backwards into the room's lone window.
His collision and the breaking glass, shock us both. Thick shards pierce his back. He howls in pain, eyes widening. Dirt, allowed in for the first time, nestles him in its embrace, pouring in around him. Blood spurts from Dom's lips and he reaches out for my help, sliding to the floor.
I'm rooted in place.
The dark thing that haunts me beyond the glass is inside now.
It's inside me.
It dusts Dom's skin brown, crumbles over his closed eyelids, taking the boy I love.
A knife of pain stabs my left temple, limbs trembling violently. I crumble to the floor like dirt.
The Dinner Table, in Real Time
I'm lying prostrate, cheek against the floor, watching my father watch me with that blank, soupy stare.
Not much different than in life I suppose.
My breathing slows, heartbeat regular, latest headache subsiding. Taking my time, I get back up and fix my fallen chair back at its place. Sit carefully, rolling kinks from my neck.
Twirling noodles onto my fork, I lift it to my lips. Open my mouth. A flash of papa’s lifeless, bloated body makes me pause. I close my mouth, droplets of cold broth falling back into the ceramic bowl. I let the fork slip from my hands, broth splashing onto the table.
Papa didn't like his kimchi ramen ration yesterday.
"I shouldn't eat the kimchi ramen for four either."
Taking my bowl up, I walk it back to the kitchen counter, being sure to turn my face away from the dirt.
I'll leave the others' food out a little longer, in case they want to have it later.
Wiping my hands on a tea towel, a yawn escapes. It's been a long day. Dom and I have been like two ships passing. It'll be nice to cuddle and chill now papa's asleep and mum’s off doing Sudoku or something.
Just me and Dom, so even the endless dark, this prison of dirt, is bearable. A smile tugs my lips, thinking about him. Life’s what you make it, mum likes to say, a cliché that means more to me daily.
Dropping the tea towel, I head back towards the stairs. "Dom?" I call out, pushing aside anxiety as darkness creeps towards me. "Where are you?"
I take the first steps up, bracing myself for the inevitable panic ever-present as the walls close in.
Life’s what you make it . . . and it’s time for bed.
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