Trapped Between Two Rocks at the End of the World

CONTENT WARNING: Suicide ideation and grief

Legacy: noun; leg·a·cy; /ˈleɡəsē/ 

plural: legacies

1. a gift of money or property

2. something received from an ancestor or the past

3. a candidate who is given special status because of a relationship to a member of the designated organization

4. a mysterious human phenomenon resulting in abnormal physical anatomy and/or intangible spiritual connection

100 million years ago… 

A violent collision in the Asteroid Belt beyond Mars sends a rock the size of a mountain range on a trajectory towards Earth.

A karst begins to form underneath an ancient Appalachia.

A neuron fires for the first time in the mind of a primordial mammal, creating a link between death and escape.

Voicemail: Sunday, October 19, 2008 at 7:18 pm

“You’ve reached Iskra. Can’t make it to the phone, probably because I don’t want to talk to you. Do with that what you will. I’ll get back to you, eventually.” BEEP.

“Iskra– heavy breathing. It’s me. Sorry, I just ran home to use my computer because I saw this thing on TV– heavy breathing– Have you heard about this? Probably not yet, without cell service up there in the mountains. I– I’m freaking out a little. So… so there’s— there’s an asteroid scheduled to pass Earth in a few weeks. They’re saying “pass” not “hit”, but… I know, I know, it’s probably fine. It’s just– the more I think about it, the more I wonder what we’d know– we, the public. Would we be told if there were an asteroid about to hit? Or would it be kept a secret? People would panic if they knew. And what does that serve? I can’t get this out of my head… It’s all probably fine, but I have this sick feeling like it’s the end. When will you be home again? They’re saying the asteroid is 132 miles across. You know the one that killed the dinosaurs? That one was only seven miles. Asteroids this size are mass exterminators. They’re planet-kille–” VOICEMAIL CUT OFF.

A Suburb in Southern Appalachia

1 week later

Friday, October 24, 2008

5:00 pm 24 hours until impact

The cul-de-sac at the end of Karst Cliff Street

“Of course you have a choice, Marty, dear fellow, everyone does.” Rachel hears the black and white movie playing from the big screen TV sitting in the middle of the empty cul-de-sac. The glow of the screen lures her closer.

Once past the Prestons’ empty house, the sounds from the living end of the suburb start to fade away in exchange for the silence of the abandoned end. Rachel no longer hears her parents fighting six houses down. The echo of the Martins’ barking dog dissolves behind her. The dull murmur of TVs from the still populated side of the neighborhood sizzle out until Rachel can’t hear them anymore. The sounds of cars dissipate, leaving only the wind and Rachel’s footsteps against the pavement. That and the comforting drone of the TV.

Rachel sighs in the quietude, “Finally.” That’s why she’s here: for some peace and quiet at the end of the world. A hushed place where Rachel can make a crucial choice: either try to sleep through the asteroid or die sooner. Take the end into her own hands. Like her brother years ago. Like Iskra a week ago.

“A choice?” the TV drones on, casting a white light over the concrete round. “An inevitability, not a choice.”

“It’s all probably fine, but I have this sick feeling like it’s the end.”

Rachel cringes remembering the voicemail. Why did I have to scare Iskra like that?

At the dead end in front of Rachel, three vacant houses, 65, 66, and 67 Karst Cliff Street– identical in every way– surround the lone TV in the cul-de-sac. By the curb of each house stands a single, barren tree. Realty signs in front of the houses rattle in the gusts of wind that descend upon the cul-de-sac. An abandoned SUV is parked at one end of the round with a for sale sign in its windshield. Dividing the cul-de-sac from the rest of the street is a sinkhole, which Rachel is able to jump across. Crumbs of road break and fall into the hole in Rachel’s wake, but she doesn’t notice.

“Inevitable? Merciful, my friend,” the movie continues as Rachel pads gently to the TV and plops down in front of it. She left the TV on since last weekend and on it played– no one there to turn it off. A thin layer of brown leaves coats the top of the TV. They lift and fall in the breeze. “Merciful.”

Rachel exhales, as the sun dips below the horizon at her back, and dusk settles over the dark houses. She reaches in her pocket and drops a crumpled funeral program to the cold asphalt: Iskra Petrović. Rachel holds her face in her hands, letting her glasses fog up from her breath.

“No,” Rachel listens to the old movie play on, “there is no mercy in this kind of agony.”

She hadn’t removed her best friend’s funeral program from her pocket since the burial a few days before. But, alone in the cul-de-sac, just before the world ends, she doesn’t want to carry it anymore. It shifts in the breeze before blowing over once… twice… three times… then the wind takes it away, dragging it into the sinkhole, where it disappears.

The black and white movie continues, “Ha! Pain. That’s all it is, friend. Nothing to scream over.”

Leaning back on her palms, Rachel turns her gaze up to the sky, eyes wide, scanning for movement. Would I even be able to see it yet? Few stars penetrate the light pollution of the city nearby, but Rachel can see the brightest ones. Among them, she sees something.

Is that it?... No, just a satellite.

“Screaming– what good would that do?” the old-timey voice from the TV fills the cul-de-sac.

Rachel tries to angle herself further back for a fuller view, but the hard plastic binding covering her butterfly wings presses against the road and stops her. Though not large, the plastic forms a bumpy hill underneath Rachel’s gray hoodie, big enough to look like a small backpack. Her wings are crumpled and bent to fold into a tight clump at the center of her back. These folded wings are bound in thick plastic– opaque so to keep her wings hidden and out of sight. Unuseable. Even without the plastic, Rachel knows they’d still be useless. Her parents, her doctors, her classmates, her teachers, strangers at the mall, they all see it and they all tell her the same thing: Her body is just too big. Flight is impossible. So impossible she never even tried. And so her wings are tucked away, completely broken like Knick-knacks shoved hard into a cardboard box to sit in the attic. She ignores her wings and hopes others can, too.

With each flicker of the stars, Rachel waits, eyes peeled, sensing impending impact. She scoffs at the realization that searching for the asteroid is futile. It’s too large. No matter where I am on Earth, there is no escaping it. What’s the point in looking?

Wait… is that it? No, a plane…

The movie on TV has ended and ads play before the next one.

“Escape this holiday season in a brand new vehicle from Tim Kraggle Dodge. You’ll find low prices, finance options, trade-in values, and a huge selection.”

The glow of the TV screen is bright against the oncoming night, casting a white glare on Rachel’s glasses. As Rachel’s focus glazes over, the brightness brings tears to her eyes. But this brightness is but a lightning bug compared to the asteroid, whose light will shine through her skin, so that her skeleton is visible, blasting her shadow as an afterimage on the ground. Every nuclear weapon on Earth detonating at the same time would be less powerful.

Looking at the fiery rock, Rachel’s eyes will sear– her vision blotched by dark spots and red pools of blood that quickly explode. The whites of her eyes melt with the brown of her irises, pooling first at the bottom of her glasses before dripping down her cheeks. Sticking her fingers into the empty eye sockets, she pulls on her face until her forehead hits the ground.

“Check out our 2009 Impact now for only $24,995 with 0% APR. Or choose from our lineup of trucks, starting at $29,999.”

Rachel stands quickly and glances around before looking up again to the empty sky. No asteroid. No melting eyes.

“Yet,” she mutters to herself.

In the stillness, she arches her back, stretching the tense spot where her wings meet her spine. But the pain does not abate. She fumbles in her jean pockets for a pill bottle, then swallows one dry. The ad continues,

“We’re here to serve you to the end, so come on down to Tim Kraggle Dodge, your trusted partner in car buying, located at the corner of Sevier and Endless. Escape your way at Tim Kraggle Dodge– Impact is Inevitable.”

The TV turns off. The dull pain in her back recedes as the medicine takes effect. The only light in the cul-de-sac now is from the streetlamp– a disturbing orange. A cold wind drenches the dead end, seeping through Rachel’s hoodie so that she shivers. Clutching her arms around herself, she shuffles away from the TV towards 65 Karst Cliff Street, when her phone rings.

She glances at the caller ID, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, then answers casually, “Mom, hey–”

“I told you, I’m at Rebecca’s house this weekend.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“I know– I’m going to church with Rebecca’s family Sunday morning.”

“I’ll be back Sunday night.”

“I won’t forget.”

“... yeah, love you, too–” Rachel abruptly hangs up.

The sinkhole underneath the streetlamp groans so particularly that it draws Rachel’s attention. She steps closer. At its edges, pieces of road crumble down into the hole, echoing off the rock as they drop– this echo creating a ghostly pulse.

Will I hear the asteroid? When the asteroid hits the atmosphere, its heat will precede it— enough heat to make the rocks on the ground sing. But what would rocks singing sound like? A sound no one alive has ever heard. A sound no one would recognize.

Even with the light of the lamp above her, Rachel cannot see the bottom of the abysmal sinkhole– only blackness. Rachel leans over the edge of the hole, gazing deeper and deeper, ensorcelled by the nothing. Without knowing, Rachel bends into the hole’s mouth. If she falls off balance even a little, she will be swallowed.

Swallowed by rock.

“They couldn’t retrieve the body from the cave,” Rachel overheard a group of old women chatting behind her at Iskra’s funeral a few days ago. “Poor thing.”

“Yes, poor dear,” another agreed.

“That casket is empty?”

“Oh, yes– empty.”

“They say she was stuck so deep in that crevice they couldn’t reach her,” one whispered. “That’s why they left her there.”

“They sealed her in there, bless her heart” another commented. “Poured cement into the crevice right on top of her.”

Rachel’s hands quivered in her lap.

“What could have pushed her to do it?” One questioned with a smile at the end, eyes wide and hungry for the dark gossip.

“Broken brain,” another answered bluntly, tapping a finger to her head. The other women nodded and agreed in unison. “It was only a matter of time.”

“Mmmm–mmmm—-mm,” another exhaled, shaking her head.

Rachel clamped her lips shut and blinked hard to clear the tears.

“Now, she’ll forever be there. Swallowed by rock.”

Rachel got up from her seat, but, instead of tossing a handful of dirt into the hole like the other mourners, she walked away, back to her car. She expected the weeping to start once alone, but she felt nothing and drove home in a trance.

I will be swallowed by rock, too. It’s only a matter of time.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

5:00 am 12 hours until impact

The cul-de-sac at the end of Karst Cliff Street

Rachel jerks awake face-first in the gutter outside 65.

Half-in the gutter, she can hear the soft drizzle of rain, then smells the dank water dripping onto her head and grimaces. Sore from sleeping on the street, Rachel awkwardly scoots out of the gutter, scratching her back and wings against the grate, and kneels before standing up. In the rain, the air is chilly and Rachel’s throat is scratchy. She eyes the gutter.

What was I trying to hide from?

Immediately, Rachel shoots her focus up. Out of the gray, the asteroid becomes visible, taking over the entire sky above her. The sight drops her stomach to the ground. Even before impact, the weight of the asteroid mounts on top of her. Its massive tonnage forces itself upon her, crushing her until she vaporizes, until her skin burns off, until the water inside her body evaporates, until her skeleton dissolves. And the final terrible pain shoots through the spot she can’t reach, where her wings connect with her spine. It hurts so bad it itches. She wants to gnaw it at, bite so hard she pierces the plastic binding, then shreds her wings to reach the itch. She feels it all in her back– all of it ending.

When Rachel opens her eyes again, she is sitting at the lip of the sinkhole, legs dangling over the edge. The cold of the void beneath her licks at Rachel’s ankles. Reflexively, she lifts both legs out of the hole, then scoots backwards.

Trembling, she stands, then takes a pill from her pocket. It gets stuck inside her throat as she looks for the other side of the street, on the other side of the sinkhole. She expects to see the rest of her neighborhood— two lines of houses bordering the wide street, cars parked along the curbs and in driveways, even hedges between each house. But, as Rachel stares ahead, her mouth drops.

The other side of the street is nowhere to be seen: the sinkhole has grown overnight. It stretches in front of her the breadth of an ocean. Through the foggy morning, she seeks the horizon, but it isn’t there. She seeks anything through the fog, across the depths, but finds nothing staring back at her. And the longer she looks, the more sinister it feels.

Am I trapped here?

Rachel turns her gaze back upon the houses. Through the alleyways between each house, Rachel can see the nine foot tall cement wall that borders the entire cul-de-sac. Past the wall she knows is a steep drop leading to a road down the hill.

“I could climb down the cliff, then circle back to the entrance of the neighborhood,” she rationalizes, though knows descending the rocky hill is dangerous.

Rachel wanders towards 65, then passes through the alley to reach the back yard. Past the emptied pool, she finds the edge of the cement wall. Kudzu reaches up over the wall from the other side, invading now that no one is there to cut it back.

Once face-to-face with the wall, Rachel grips the corner and peers around it to see the cliff she knows is on the other side. But as her gaze finds the other side of the wall, her heart races. It’s not the cliffside she sees.

She stares at the exact same cul-de-sac– a copy, existing parallel to her. The same circle of houses, the same cement wall, and, next to that wall, she spots someone standing there. The figure is far off, but she can tell the person is facing away from her, looking around their own wall, searching for the cliff. But it isn’t there.

The person turns and sees Rachel staring.

Rachel jumps backward, away from the wall, stumbling to the ground. Without a second glance, she wrestles to standing and runs back to the street, where her eyes dart all around. There’s no other way out.

“I’m trapped here.”

In the silence that follows, Rachel’s skin runs cold as the branches of the barren trees shake in the wind. But then, she chuckles. “What does it matter?” She scoffs. Trapped here– trapped there. I’m still trapped on Earth. The asteroid is coming, no matter where I am.

Then, that itch– that horrid itch from earlier, right at the center of her spine. No matter how she arches or stretches her arms over and under her shoulders, she can’t reach it. Extending as hard as she can, her fingers begin to cramp, yet the itch is just out of reach.

“Arghh,” Rachel grumbles, stepping around herself in a circle, perpetually reaching back. This unfamiliar pain confuses Rachel. The plastic around her wings has always caused some minor itchiness. But nothing like this. This itch has fangs.

Desperate, she lies on the cold ground, rubbing the bump on her back as hard as she can against the asphalt. “Hmmph,” she struggles, moving forward and backward awkwardly on her back, rolling like a dog. But the itch remains. And, alongside that itch, now, the odd pleasure of scratching. She can’t stop. Harder and harder she presses.

SNAP! One of the frames in Rachel’s butterfly wings breaks, even underneath the plastic armor. “Ow!” She rolls over onto her stomach and stands up again, shaking off the pain that flows in waves outward from her spine. But the storm doesn’t calm.

Quivering, she dives a hand into her pocket and swallows another pill, begging for the relief to come. The unfamiliar itching and aching disturbs her. Maybe it’s just from sleeping outside. Despite her convincing, she knows that there’s something else going on– something she doesn’t understand.

As a cold gust of wind makes Rachel shiver, she retreats from the sinkhole and heads inside 65 Karst Cliff Street. Stepping over the welcome mat, Rachel enters the foyer. Up the stairs are a few bedrooms. Straight ahead is the kitchen. To Rachel’s left is the dining room. To her right, the primary bedroom. Then the living room sits behind the dining room, in a dark little corner of the house.

Rachel turns on the light above the foyer. A shadow dips behind the wall of the dark kitchen. Rachel’s eyebrows furrow. “Hello?” She tentatively walks to the kitchen door and peeks inside. The light from the foyer stops dead in the doorway, leaving the kitchen completely dark.

CRUNCH. Something moves on the counter. Hurriedly, Rachel flips the light switch.

“Pervert,” she sighs, stroking the orange cat’s back as he arches in response. “I guess you’re stuck here with me.” He meows aggressively.

“I know, I know,” Rachel heads for the pantry where she finds the bag of cat food she and Iskra bought for Pervert, when they realized he had been left behind when his owners got evicted.

Rachel pours the kibble into a plastic bowl on the counter, fending off a hungry Pervert until she’s done. “God!” Rachel exclaims teasingly. “Hungry, hungry hippo.”

While Pervert scarfs down his food, Rachel grabs a bag of chips from the pantry and munches on a handful as she enters the living room. The previous owners left their couch behind— a gigantic couch that she and Iskra could both sleep in together. With a sigh, she drops into its fluffy embrace and lies on her side. Without Iskra the couch feels impossibly huge. In the corner of the room a dark lava lamp sits unplugged. It’s the only other thing in the room aside from the couch and the coffee table. The light from the kitchen lands on the carpet and it fills Rachel with such loneliness that she closes her eyes.

Not long later, the ground starts shaking. The trembling starts gently, like someone slamming the front door shut. Rachel briefly thinks it’s Iskra coming inside. “Iskra?” She instinctively calls out. But Iskra isn’t there and the shaking mounts. Rachel blinks and, when she opens her eyes, she is back outside, lying on her side on the road. The sinkhole is a few feet in front of her, and she hears more of the asphalt falling into it as the ground shakes.

Stumbling to standing, Rachel cranes her neck back, looking up for the asteroid. “Did it hit?” She blurts, scanning all around herself.

When the asteroid hits, the earth’s crust will explode, sending rocks as big as skyscrapers into the air, rising ominously like raindrops falling backward. The ground beneath Rachel’s feet will be ripped up like old carpet, forming a wave of concrete and rock so tall that its head will be in the atmosphere.

With the rock sent into the sky will be trash. Millions of tons of trash bags, furniture, asbestos, compacted cars, and nuclear waste will be excavated from their hiding places and will fall from the heavens, cratering the earth. As acid rains down, anything beneath it will disintegrate, including bone. Sewage will rocket into the air to be vaporized or to be sent back down upon our heads before we die. With the explosion, plastic byproducts will incinerate, releasing toxins into the air, to be inhaled, then choked on. To breathe it in is to burn from the inside out.

Iskra’s last breath in the crevice.

Rachel’s eyes shoot open. She stands in 65’s foyer again. The shaking has stopped, but the itch is back.

6:00 pm 11 hours until impact

65 Karst Cliff Street

What could be causing it?

Rachel paces in one of the upstairs bedrooms– a teenage girl’s room, left in immaculate condition– as if she took nothing with her when they left. Wall-to-wall the room is pink with zebra-stripe accents. Lime green pops here and there, but pink overwhelms. The curtains, the alarm clock, the TV, the collection of lip glosses, all pink.

A body-length mirror with square photos taped around the edges stands by the bed. Rachel steps closer to the glass. Lisa Frank stickers pepper the mirror with vibrant color– less vibrant under the harsh overhead light.

She twists her back, trying to evade the itch. “Maybe there’s something jabbed into the binding,” she guesses. A pointy edge could be causing discomfort.

She tilts forward to get a better view of her back in the mirror, but she can only see the bump of her binding– nothing is sticking out. She tries to ignore the itch as it mounts again. But it digs its fingers into the inflamed skin of her back. It starts small in the center, then ripples outward to be just barely within reach. But when Rachel scratches there at the edge of the pain, it’s so morbidly unsatisfying that she can only paw at her flesh harder.

Out of breath, she stops and lets her head hang down. “What else could it be?” Her heart is racing.

Gently, her hand reaches for her jeans pocket for the pill bottle, but she stops. “Could it be a side effect?” If it is a side effect, then why didn’t it start itching before now? She shakes her head. No, that doesn’t make sense.

Her heart plummets. “Mold,” she mutters. The rain. I slept in the rain.

Lifting her head, she looks in the mirror. “No,” she assures herself, “the plastic binding is too thick to let moisture in.” Unless there’s a hole. A chill runs down her neck. “But… But how? They said…” The doctors who applied the binding four years ago told her that the plastic was too thick to break without special equipment. “A hole would be impossible…”

Rachel sighs, “Unless…”

Rachel gazes at the strings of photobooth photos taped to the edges of the mirror. They are of two friends, posing back-to-back, sometimes laughing and other times pouting their lips.

“I wish we had pics like this,” Rachel commented to Iskra one evening a few months ago, when she and Iskra were hanging out in the teen’s abandoned room. Rachel found herself smiling back at the two girls in the pictures, but her smile dropped as Iskra sharply replied, “What like you and your theater friends?”

Iskra is lying on the carpet, texting with their phone held up close to their eyes. When Rachel looked at Iskra, Iskra didn't look back, their expression deadpan. There was no reading them. After years of trying, Rachel knew better.

“Well,” Rachel returned, “I know you and your soccer friends do it.”

No response.

Rachel laughed to shake it off and mimicked Iskra with their friends posing for pictures with peace signs close to their faces and kissy, fish lips. When Iskra laughed, it flipped Rachel’s heart in her chest. But Iskra didn’t laugh. They didn’t even peel their eyes away from the phone. Rachel inhaled deeply and with her exhale, sat on the bed, back to Iskra.

“You’re going in your hoodie again, aren’t you?” Iskra asked from the floor, their voice flat and accusing. Almost annoyed.

“What?” Rachel examined Iskra, seeking their face from behind the phone.

“To homecoming,” Iskra elaborated, finally sitting up to face Rachel. “You’re going to wear your hoodie. Right?”

Rachel cringed under the directness of the accusation. “Well… um… yeah, I guess so,” Rachel stammered. “I hadn’t thought about what I’d wear to the dance yet.”

“You could let the theater troupe choose your outfit. That sounds… zany,” Iskra added sarcastically, dropping their phone to the ground and standing up. They scrutinized the collection of body spray bottles on the vanity. After picking one, they sprayed it into the air. “How about this,” Iskra began, stepping into the shower of body spray. “You get your friends to pick for you and I’ll get my friends to pick for me.” Iskra grabbed a magazine from a stack and plopped down into a pink inflatable mini-sofa.

Rachel studied her bristly friend closely. “Look, I’m only going with my friends because it’s homecoming– it’s not prom. We can still go together. Like we always do.”

Iskra said nothing, flipping the page.

“It’s not like you don’t have anyone to go with,” Rachel muttered.

A spell of silence fell between them until Iskra finally spoke. “My thing is… like, are you really going to wear your hoodie?”

Rachel threw her hands up in the air. “It’s a goddamn hoodie! Why do you care?”

Iskra tilted their chin down and flashed a hurt look in their eyes. “You wear it at every single dance each year– no, you wear it every single day.”

“But, I mean,” Rachel interjected, “you have your favorite socks, your favorite jacket.”

“This is not the same, and you know that,” Iskra’s voice was cold. A pregnant pause followed as the two looked at each other.

“You act like you don’t know why I wear it,” Rachel finally responded in frustration.

Iskra waited for more.

Rachel’s mouth gaped as the words failed her, before shrugging her shoulders and standing up from the bed.

“You want to know something I learned?” Iskra pressed as Rachel headed for the door. She opened it and stopped, turning back around to Iskra.

“You’re supposed to remove your wing binding every 3 months.”

Rachel’s brow furrowed. “Okay…”

Iskra raised an eyebrow. “When was the last time you took it off?”

Rachel scoffed, and left the room. Iskra followed behind, down the stairs.

“I did some research,” Iskra explained at her back. “You’re not the only person in the world with a legacy, you know. You’re not the only one to bind their wings. Lots of times it’s the parents or the school or the church that encourage it– like with you.”

Rachel didn’t stop at the front door, and strode out into the street.

“You’re not taking care of yourself,” Iskra insisted and then finally stopped following. “Why don’t you ever want to talk about it?”

As Rachel recalls this memory, she wishes she had turned around and answered Iskra’s question. But that’s not what she did. Instead, she walked away, without another word, leaving Iskra alone in the cul-de-sac.

“Unless Iskra was right.” Rachel finishes, staring into the mirror months later. After a long pause, she adds, “Goddammit.”

It’s only as she notices the scissors on the desk that the idea of cutting off her binding actually occurs to her.

“There’s no way those scissors would work,” she dismisses. But the itch contorts her body, as she maneuvers the act of scratching. She turns around and slams her back against the corner of the wall, rising and falling to rub the itch away. But with the plastic binding, there’s no relief.

In complete desperation, she removes her hoodie, revealing her white t-shirt underneath– a shirt with a giant hole in the back for her wings in the binding to fit through. A shiver runs down her bare arms.

As the itch barrages her, Rachel begins cutting the plastic. She must angle her body in the mirror to see properly. Once in position, she opens the scissors and closes them around the topmost tip of the plastic, away from her wing. It’s a struggle at first, but, to Rachel’s amazement, when she opens the scissors again, there is a new tear in the plastic.

“There’s no way…” she begins in surprise, cutting into the plastic again in a different spot with the same result. She chuckles curtly, “So much for special equipment.”

In earnest, she thinks she is able to tear the plastic by hand, but the sharp pains lighting up all over her wings force her back to using the slower method: scissors. Furiously cutting away, Rachel thinks about all the adults in her life who never informed her of the necessity of removing and replacing the binding every three months. They were just wrapping her up to never be opened again. Because Iskra had been right; she’d never removed the binding.

As the plastic falls away, it gets snagged on different parts of her wings, tilting her off center the heavier it gets. The minutes pass and the pile of plastic on the floor is growing.

The more Rachel exposes her wings, the more problems she sees. The frames of her wings are bent and broken to fit the binding, rips and holes in the chitin abound, and her vibrant orange color is now pale, like a cave salamander.

As the last strip is peeled away, Rachel is disgusted by the limp, desecrated butterfly wings hanging off her back, dragging on the floor. A sense of permanence invades, while inspecting her battered wings. There’s no fixing this.

“No mold…” Rachel notices, scanning her wings carefully for the source of the itch. To her despair, she finds none.

Rachel hangs her head. Though she feels lighter without the plastic, the dead weight of her wings pulls her down, anchored by the spot at the center of her back. And the itch is relentless.

As she turns to walk toward the bed, the movement shifts a broken frame on her left wing. “Ow!” She recoils, tensing her body to stop from moving, but the stinging echoes.

The itch evolves into a burning pain of brokenness cascading up and down the web of her frames, leading to the center of her spine. Electrifying, this new pain dazzles Rachel, bringing her to her knees, then face-first in the carpet. It buries inside her so deep she gags, her head spinning, though she lies still on the floor. Sweat brims her hairline, then her neck, then down her arms– a chill shakes her.

Her eyes widen. There’s no fixing this. She seizes in terror, pupils shrunken, staring at the baseboard. The pain is incessant, making her squirm. She whimpers and swallows two pills at the same time, desperate for relief.

Burying her face in the carpet, she struggles to inhale deeply. Behind her closed eyes, bursts of light and color dance off her dizziness. “Something feels wrong,” she speaks into the fibres and dust mites. There’s no fixing this.

And then the question— the terrible question: Should I just end it now? Instead of suffering until the asteroid comes, just end it. There’s no fixing this. The medicine isn’t working, blinding Rachel with pain.

The scissors lie next to her on the floor. Rachel grips the handle and drags them to her body. Pulling her forearm free from underneath her, Rachel takes the sharp end of the scissors and presses into her skin at a point. When she stops pressing, she sees an indentation where the scissors had been. But no blood. She tries again, pressing harder. But the scissors are too thick and dull. She presses so hard she starts to shake.

Just do it.

In frustration, Rachel starts hitting the sharp edge against her forearm, stabbing at it in a weak delirium. At first, nothing happens, but then she starts tearing her skin. The minor scrapes bleed enough to convince a barely-conscious Rachel. Breathing rapidly, she lays her head back down and lets her eyes close.

This is it. Her breathing slows, her body relaxes, and she drifts away.

9:00 pm 8 hours until impact

65 Karst Cliff Street

When she wakes, Rachel’s arm is covered in dried blood, and there’s a small stain on the carpet. “What?” She grips her forearm, confused, until she remembers.

She sighs, “It didn’t work.” Now dry, Rachel can see that the wounds on her arm are superficial. The bleeding appeared worse than it was. Looking at her arm, it seems like she got in a mild bike accident— not a life-threatening wound. Defeated, she pulls herself onto the bed. The cuts on her arms sting, but they pale in comparison to the broken wings upon her back.

Wings dangling in the air above her like torn and tattered sails, Rachel lies flat on the pink and zebra bed. The broken frames of her wings jut out like tree branches, while the pale chitin droops, wrinkled and displaced. Some of the frames are completely broken in two, whereas others cling together by a thread. She shifts to move her arm into a different position, but immediately recoils as a sharp pain etches across her back. She breathes heavily into the crook of her bloody arm, devastated by the unyielding pain.

With the binding, Rachel’s wings were suspended in plastic, which completely supported their weight. The remaining pain was a perpetual soreness just where her wings meet her spine– livable. But now that the binding is cut off, a much sharper pain replaces the soreness. Every centimeter she moves throws her spine into agony. And it isn’t going away.

The wind blows outside the bedroom window, howling and shaking the loose gutters just above her. A dying fire alarm battery beeps every few minutes downstairs, loud enough to be grating but quiet enough to want to ignore. Beep. The pink TV drones on in the background.

“Escape this holiday season in a brand new vehicle from Tim Kraggle Dodge. You’ll find low prices, finance options, trade-in values, and a huge selection. Check out our 2009 Impact now for only $24,995 with 0% APR. Or choose from our lineup of trucks, starting at $29,999. We’re here to serve you to the end, so come on down to Tim Kraggle Dodge, your trusted partner in car buying, located at the corner of Sevier and Endless. Escape your way at Tim Kraggle Dodge–”

Rachel mouths the last words of the ad, “Impact is Inevitable.”

Beep.

Staring off, Rachel’s fingers search for her pill bottle open by her head, but when she only feels one remaining, her stomach drops. She glares into the bottle. “No, no, no,” she chants, but she already knows it’s true. “Ugh,” she sighs loudly, then places the last pill in her dry mouth. She swallows, but it doesn’t go down right away. After a few attempts, it worms down her esophagus and lodges itself in her chest.

Beep.

“I can’t get more. I’m trapped.”

Beep.

Without any more medicine, how am I supposed to sleep through the asteroid now?

After impact, after the earth has been shaken, it will be fire that razes continents. Wildfires so strong they generate their own winds will devour everything from the plains to the sea, so that one could run hundreds of miles to escape only to be met with rough waters. No relief, but to cling to the rocky shore underneath the lip of fire, begging for fuel to run out before the ocean swallows everything. But Rachel won’t live that long.

The TV turns off, like someone unplugged it. But Rachel only notices the silence when it is broken.

A voice echoes from downstairs. “It’s all probably fine, but I have this sick feeling like it’s the end.”

Rachel jolts to a seated position on the bed and immediately doubles over as her snapped wing frames grate against each other. After wincing, she listens. Rachel heard the voice as if it was in the house.

What did they say? In the surprise of hearing the voice, she hadn’t retained the words, but knows they are familiar– her own words. But not her voice.

Beep.

Slowly, she stands up from the bed and steps out of the bedroom, leaning over the balcony at the top of the stairs above the foyer, listening for any signs of life downstairs. She is tempted to call out, “Hello?” but doesn’t, holding her breath. All she hears is the wind outside.

Beep.

After a few minutes of quiet, Rachel relaxes, leaning fully on the bannister and letting her back arch. I must’ve dozed off somehow… dreaming what I heard.

Then, a gentle creak from downstairs. Just one. Like a footstep taken followed by a pause long enough to be suspicious. Rachel’s head jerks up and her brow furrows as she listens again. I’ve been alone this whole time.

Right…?

10:00 pm 7 hours until impact

65 Karst Cliff Street

Rachel’s phone rings in her back pocket. “Fuck,” she jumps, clutching her hand to her heart. Fumbling with her phone, Rachel hurriedly silences the ring, but the vibrate is still obnoxiously loud. She can only silence it by answering.

“Hello?” She whispers as she creeps into the upstairs bathroom, closes the door, and crouches behind the toilet.

“Rachel?” Margo’s assured voice is just as loud as the vibrate. “Rachel, why are you whispering?”

“I– I…” Rachel stammers.

“Oh, lord, it’s a little late, huh?” Margo scoffs, “I just got off work and forgot what time it was. Did I wake you?”

“Kinda,” Rachel responds in a hushed voice.

“Well, the reason I’m calling is Iskra– I heard about what happened and I know you two were close. You haven’t been to the suicide support group lately, so I felt I needed to check in on you.”

Rachel turns her neck, which triggers another shot of pain down her back. She winces and Margo hears. “Are you in pain?” the older woman’s voice grows concerned.

With her mind shocked by the fresh wave of affliction, Rachel isn’t clever enough to lie. “Yes,” she whispers, her voice cracking. The tears surprise her, brimming quicker than she can fight them off. “Yes,” she repeats.

“What happened?”

Rachel slowly rises from the corner and tip toes out of the bathroom, back to the stairs. She doesn’t hear anything, except Margo repeating her question. Before answering, Rachel descends the stairs, keeping her back against the wall, then cautiously looks around the first floor.

“Rachel? Can you hear me?”

Rachel stands in the kitchen, alone, and exhales. “Sorry,” Rachel replies at a normal volume. “I thought I heard something.”

Tenderly, she steps into the kitchen, the electric pain slowing her movements. “Ouch” she blurts, tripping over something on the floor. A plastic clattering sound follows.

“Pervert’s bowl?” She mumbles. I thought I left it on the counter.

“It’s okay,” Margo assures her, “Just tell me what happened.”

“I–” Since cutting off her binding, Rachel hadn’t considered how she would tell people. “Uh… okay, if– if I tell you, will you promise to keep it between us?”

“... within reason.” Margo answers honestly. Not the response Rachel prefers.

“Understood…” Rachel begins cautiously, “So, I– earlier today, um… I may have cut my wings out of their binding…”

Margo’s silence rings in Rachel’s ear. “I thought there was mold,” Rachel hurries to explain. “I worried I may have punctured a hole in the plastic and… somehow mold got in.”

“You did this yourself?” Margo sounds stupefied. “Why not go to a doctor?”

Rachel doesn’t know how to tell Margo about the asteroid or the cul-de-sac or the sinkhole. If I tell Margo about the asteroid, who’s to say she wouldn’t respond like Iskra did? Desperate people do desperate things. Is it better to warn her or let her live in peace until the end comes in the morning?

“You know what,” Margo goes on, her tone accepting and neutral, “doesn’t matter why. Are your wings hurt?”

“Yes,” Rachel exhales. “They’re– they’re broken and– and torn and… I ran out of my pain meds and I… I can’t get more.”

“Describe the pain to me,” Margo’s doctor voice comes out.

“Um… Well, it’s sort of… like–...” Rachel stumbles. Margo patiently waits in silence, as if she has a pen at the ready to take note of Rachel’s symptoms. “I– I don’t know how to describe it.”

A light out of the corner of Rachel’s eye draws her attention. She finds the living room lit up bright pink from one corner. Rachel wanders into the room and kneels by the lava lamp, lifting the cord in her fingers. Did I plug it in? She can’t remember.

Margo inhales. “I’ve never had a patient with wings before. So it’s important that I know what kind of pain you’re in.”

A creak behind Rachel pulls her eyes back to the kitchen, but she sees nothing. Her chest rises and falls rapidly with her breath.

“Who’s there?” Rachel blurts, but her tenor trembles.

“Who’s there?” Margo repeats. “Rachel, are you safe?”

Rachel waits quietly, but when nothing happens, she says into the phone, “No– no, everything is fine. I– I just…” she sighs, “I just want to sleep. But the pain won’t let me.”

“Well, can you fix your wings with any of the materials around you?”

Surprised, Rachel isn’t sure what to say. “Fix?” Why didn’t I think of that? “I don’t know… um…” She looks around lamely.

“There’s a lot I don’t know,” Margo admits, “But what I do know is that if you can fix what’s broken the pain will abate.” Margo continues, “Where are you? I can come to you.”

“No, you– you can’t.” Forgetfully, Rachel turns to look at the sinkhole outside the dining room window and her vertebrae by her wings tighten together and almost crack. “Ow,” she recoils, dropping her phone into the carpet where it disappears.

Kneeling down, she brushes her hands over the carpet in search of the phone, but all she feels is soft fiber. She slides over to look under the couch, thinking it fell down there, but all she sees are a pair of hello kitty slippers, a string of Chuck E. Cheese tickets, and an old vitamin bottle.

“What the hell?” Rachel grumbles, looking all over the living room for the phone with no luck. “It couldn’t have just disappeared.” She checks underneath the couch cushions, she checks the glass table in front of the couch, she checks everywhere in the living room. Even with the overhead light on, there’s no sign of the phone. She can’t even hear the muffled sound of Margo’s voice on the line. Whatever remaining chances Rachel had to warn Margo about the asteroid are gone with that phone.

All she cares about now is sleep. Time is running out.

11:00 pm 6 hours until impact

65 Karst Cliff Street

When the house begins to shake again, Rachel ignores it.

If you can fix what’s broken, the pain will abate. But how to fix her wings? Trapped in the cul-de-sac, Rachel can only use the materials immediately at her disposal. She paces at a limp between the living room and the dining room, gentle with her wings, careful not to move them. How can I fix them? How can I fix them?

There is no fixing this.

“Margo doesn’t know the extent of the problem,” Rachel murmurs to herself. “Maybe she’s wrong and there’s nothing that can be done.” But for sleep’s sake, I must try.

CRRRRRKKKK CRRRRRKKKKK

The ceiling above Rachel cracks. Then, part of the floor sinks in on itself.

Rushing over to the dining room window, Rachel looks out and can see part of the sinkhole next to the house. It’s dark out, so Rachel struggles to discern between what’s a shadow and what’s the sinkhole.

Has it grown?

Bearing down, Rachel grits her teeth and rushes through the onslaught of pain, through the foyer, and out the front door, where she finds the sinkhole eating the side of 65.

Like a predator caught with fresh prey, the sinkhole snarls at her warningly– do not interrupt my meal. 65 moans as its bloody innards spill out the side of the gaping hole in its flesh.

Mouth agape, Rachel hurries to 66 next door. As she slams the door shut, she listens to the crash of 65, crumbling into the sinkhole’s gullet. She can’t bear to see it, as if being out of sight makes it not real. Will the neighborhood even still be here by the time the asteroid comes?

The crashing sound of the cul-de-sac’s destruction mimics the sound of total obliteration upon impact. It will be the sound of impact, much more than the sight, that will crush our feeble minds– the violent meeting of two celestial giants. Nothing so loud will have ever been heard by human ears. The depravity will warp us irrevocably.

Temporarily safe in 66, Rachel listens until the cul-de-sac quietens again. She exhales but then with her next inhale, clasps a hand over her nose and mouth. “Ugh! What is that smell?”

11:30 pm 5 ½ hours until impact

66 Karst Cliff Street

Rachel heads directly into the kitchen and turns on the harsh fluorescent overhead. As the dingy, white light lands on the kitchen, Rachel immediately sees the culprit: rotten take-out she and Iskra had left there from three weeks ago.

“Gross!” She exclaims into her hand, but that’s when she sees them: chopsticks.

Rachel's eyes widen.

Still with a hand covering her nose, she rushes over to the utensil drawer and digs out two handfuls of reusable silver chopsticks– left behind by the previous owners along with the rest of the silverware. She carries them to the dining room, away from the stench so that she can use both hands to experiment.

Taking one chopstick in her hand, she feels over her shoulder for one of her wings’ broken frames. As her fingers find a break, she places the chopstick along the length of the snapped frame. Pinching the chopstick and frame together tightly, Rachel breathes unevenly– the pain will not relent. But, braced by the chopstick, the one broken frame comes back together. Now, all she needs is something to glue the chopsticks to the frames.

Tape would just fall apart. Probably wouldn’t even stick. Back muscles twitching and trembling, Rachel returns to the kitchen and digs through the junk drawer. No glue. There are rubber bands, but she’d have to tie them through a hole in the chitin. She considers sticky substances, like syrup, but there aren’t any in the cul-de-sac.

Feeling defeated, Rachel lets her head hang down, stretching her tense neck muscles. The wind blows against the side of the house, causing it to creak though nothing inside moves. The eerie sensation of the walls shifting raises the hairs on the back of Rachel’s neck. The howl of the wind is all she hears as she closes her eyes.

But, after impact, the howl of the ejecta cloud will roar compared to the wind, bursting our eardrums. When the asteroid hits, the ejecta cloud of dust, smoke, and glass will radiate outward from impact, moving at 10,000 miles per hour, covering every inch of the globe after a few hours.

As Rachel stands there in the cul-de-sac, she will see the ejecta cloud coming from hundreds of miles away. She will be unable to turn her gaze as the monstrous storm charges at her. By the time it reaches her, the cloud will burn her like a blowtorch. After a few minutes, the ground temperature will reach 300 degrees Fahrenheit. But she’ll have been burned alive long before then. Her skin will be ripped off in the blast, leaving her muscles and veins exposed to the oven she stands in. As the moisture evaporates out of her body, her skeleton will shrivel and her fat will melt–

Melt…

Rachel opens her eyes again in the kitchen of 66. Melt… “Wax.”

Sunday, October 26, 2008

12:00 am 5 hours until impact

66 Karst Cliff Street

Rachel limps cautiously from the counter across the kitchen to the dark stairwell leading down to the basement. “Ouch, ouch,” she repeats with each step. At the top of the stairs, she pauses; it’s dark down there. Though the light from the kitchen is enough to illuminate the stairwell, everything downstairs remains shrouded in darkness.

She descends carefully. From the bottom of the stairs and the bottom of the light, she can vaguely make out the left behind contents of the craftroom. Big, bulky cabinets line part of the wall. A wide desk sits beside an even larger counter workspace, which takes up most of the room. Strewn over the counter are material scraps, a few fabric pens, and pieces of notebook paper with scribbled designs. All the fabrics were taken, but the supplies had been abandoned. Including paper cement.

At the bottom of the stairs, as Rachel reaches to turn on the light, she stops and stares into the dark basement. Standing in the far corner is a figure completely veiled in shadow.

Rachel slits her eyes, peering into the black room, colder than upstairs. Though she cannot see its face, she knows the figure is facing away from her, shoulders slumped, lingering in the corner. The longer she stares, the more it looks like it's breathing. She can’t blink, fearing she’ll miss the most miniscule of movements to prove the thing is alive.

Rachel lets out an involuntary gasp. As if it heard her, the figure stops breathing, standing there frozen. Rachel considers fleeing back up the stairs, but can’t move. Her fingers quiver above the light switch, indecisive as to whether to continue in the dark, in the safety of this moment, or to turn on the light and watch as the figure runs towards her.

Heart thudding, she finally flicks the light on.

“Oh,” she remarks with a scoff.

The figure is a mannequin upon a stand, draped partially in a project long forgotten. Stepping lightly, she crosses the room and runs her fingers over the mannequin’s soft skin. She rolls her eyes at herself. “Scared over nothing,” she scolds, turning her attention back to the countertop, where she finds the paper cement.

“Ha,” Rachel celebrates as she palms the bottle of glue. “Found you.” Taking the chopstick again in one hand and aligning it with the broken frame, she paints the glue brush over the braced spot. She holds it in place as it dries, tapping her foot anxiously as she waits. This won’t work. There’s no way. This won’t work.

Slowly, she pulls her fingers away from the frame and waits for the snap, but the wax holds. Her breath mounts as the minutes pass and the frame remains intact. It’s working.

The house trembles as the sinkhole once again grows. Then, darkness descends on the house as the electricity powers down. The light from the kitchen at the top of the stairs turns off, dropping the entire house into the blackness of night.

They finally did it. They turned the power off in the cul-de-sac. Rachel rolls her eyes again, remembering that Iskra had been right about something else, too: that eventually the power company would shut off the electricity of the dead end where no one lives anymore. Rachel had always assumed things would continue to be normal indefinitely, like their small corner of the universe could be forgotten and available as their utopia forever. But Iskra had known otherwise. The place the two friends ran off to every weekend to just exist together– alone together– was to be a brief sanctuary. The utility companies would eventually catch up to them.

Or the sinkhole ate the powerlines…

“Fuck,” Rachel groans. “Now how can I fix my wings if I can’t see?”

CREEEAAAAKKK… thump… thump… thump.

Something is coming down the stairs. But Rachel remains where she stands, clutching the paper cement to her chest. Goosebumps spread over her exposed arms, then down her neck, until they reach her wings, where they feel like droplets of cold water. Her chest rises and falls.

Thump… thump…

In the complete dark, Rachel cannot see what it is.

Thump… thump… It stops at the bottom of the stairs. Rachel trembles, waiting, but nothing happens.

“Who– Who’s there?” Rachel stammers weakly.

The only answer she receives is a soft creak as whatever it is shifts its stance. But she can’t hear anything else– no breathing, no crinkle of clothing, no joints cracking, no swallowing. The silence is inhuman.

Out of the dark, a recording plays: “You’ve reached Iskra. Can’t make it to the phone, probably because I don’t want to talk to you. Do with that what you will. I’ll get back to you, eventually.” BEEP.

Rachel’s breathing accelerates, as she steps backward, away from the stairs, towards the back door. She stumbles blindly, tripping over a stool and a few boxes, trying to get out.

Thump- thump-thump-thump- the footsteps head for her again, faster now.

Rachel screams, as she grasps the door handle and flings herself outside into the cold night air. She runs, then stumbles, and turns around to look at the back door from about 15 feet away.

Catching her breath, she watches the door, peering through the cover of darkness for any sign of movement. As her eyes finally begin to adjust, she can make out the door frame, then, she sees it— a hand.

A hand is wrapped around the doorframe.

She cannot make out what the hand is attached to, but with a sickening feeling, she recognizes it.

Out of the darkness, a red glow descends upon the backyard, bathing everything in neon blood. It colors the hand, and, at first, Rachel can’t look away. The hand doesn’t move. With each blink, Rachel expects to find a plausible explanation— there is no hand, just a trick of the light— but the hand remains there still.

Her face lined with panic, Rachel turns her attention to 67 nextdoor to find the source of the red light. As it lands upon her face and front, her broken wings capture the color and blend it with shadow. A soft hum pulses from the glow. Rachel stares. Floating there in the backyard is an open door, red and glowing from the inside.

Rachel steps closer, but her footsteps are muted. All she hears is the hum. The door floats there, solitary, opening up for Rachel, and inviting her into the red light. Standing inches from it, she wonders where it leads and, in a moment of carelessness, simply steps inside and enters the door.

Out of the red, she finds herself inside the foyer of 67, as 66’s backyard crumbles into the sinkhole licking at her heels. She didn’t know the sinkhole had been behind her the whole time.

1:00 am 4 hours until impact

67 Karst Cliff Street

Without power, Rachel stands in the dark, empty house. For a moment, she doesn’t move. The interior is freezing cold. Once her eyes adjust, she steps into the dining room and feels a breeze.

“Oh, shit,” Rachel recalls, closing the dining room window, which she and Iskra had left open the last time they were there.

Rachel shivers.

The sound of her footsteps fills the house as she turns around and walks to the primary bedroom. Blindly, she stumbles into the room and feels her way to the armoire left behind by the owners. As the flat of her hand grazes the table top, she sets down the paper cement and retrieves the chopsticks from her back pocket. She gazes into the vanity mirror, though she cannot see her reflection in the dark.

After the asteroid’s impact, after the initial waves of devastation, it will always be dark like this. The ejecta cloud will block the sun’s light, making a dark day permanent. Even if Rachel managed to survive everything else, she would starve when nothing grows. It will smell like rotten eggs as toxic gasses leak into the air. The only thing to thrive will be fungi– everything else will die, most likely alone.

Just like Rachel will.

“If I want to fall asleep before the asteroid comes,” Rachel rationalizes, “I need to fix my wings blind. And quickly.”

But, God, it hurts. Every time she touches a break in her wings, she recoils, but her fingers diligently glide along the frames, seeking bends and gaps. She pinches a piece of dislocated chitin to the chopstick she attached earlier and douses it in paper cement that quickly hardens, joining them together.

More of the cul-de-sac crashes into the sinkhole outside. 67 stands alone now, upon a thin column of rock, surrounded by an unending hole. Tucked inside 67, Rachel knows she is only temporarily safe. Now, sleep is her only escape.

As Rachel blindly follows the path of her frames, gluing broken pieces every which way, she mutters absentmindedly to herself, “Escape this holiday season in a brand new vehicle from Tim Kraggle Dodge.”

She works from the top of her wings down. Her breathing is uneven.

“You’ll find low prices, finance options, trade-in values, and a huge selection.”

Every time she grips a broken frame, pain rips through her wings and down her spine. But Rachel keeps going, biting her lip until it bleeds. After she braces the frame, she feels around for ripped chitin, which she also repairs with glue. What a mess. She has no idea whether she is actually fixing her wings or only further damaging them.

“Check out our 2009 Impact now for only $24,995 with 0% APR.” Rachel’s eyelids are heavy, eager to close and to sleep, once the pain lessens. She shakes her head to stay awake.

“We’re here to serve you to the end…” The wax is sticky upon her fingers. She is running low on chopsticks and knows she must finish soon.

“...so come on down to Tim Kraggle Dodge, your trusted partner in car buying, located at the corner of Sevier and Endless.” She nears the very bottom of her wings, then feels for any spots she may have missed. There are a few big frames still broken, but she has done all she can.

“Escape your way.” With the last broken frame splinted, she observes her handiwork through touch. The frames hold her wings upright in an erect position.

“Impact is Inevitable.”

In the mirror, she can make out her shape and comments with a smile-less chuckle, “You’re larger than I remember.” On the day they crumpled her wings into the binding, they gave her laughing gas, saying that anesthesia was unnecessary. So when they snapped her frames into tiny fragments, Rachel laughed. She laughed until tears came out of her eyes. Then, too, she begged for sleep. But it didn’t come.

The spot connecting her wings to her back still aches, but the shooting pain is dulled. She takes a deep breath without wincing. When she exhales, she lies down, face in the carpet.

“Finally,” she whispers, turning her cheek to the side. “Finally I can rest.”

She drags herself to the left-behind bed, reaches an arm over the side, and pulls herself to a kneeling position. As she tries to lift herself into bed, her hand drops down onto the mattress– no, not a mattress. It’s a waterbed.

“How did I not notice this before?” She wearily wonders as she presses the surface of the water letting it dance under her palm. With dark circles around her eyes, she awkwardly lowers herself into the bed, lying on her side. The waves jostle underneath her, then calm as her body stills, her back relaxing for the first time since she arrived in the cul-de-sac.

Eyes closed, Rachel lets the darkness overtake her. The calcification in her spine melts, as she completely sinks into the bed. The stinging, the aching, the cramping– all of that noise in her body– just floats away. She is not asleep, but she can’t open her eyes, either.

This might be the last time I ever sleep. The last time I’m ever awake. If I’m lucky.

But what Rachel didn’t expect was to still be unable to sleep. Though her body no longer hurts, she still lays there conscious. Her eyes are closed, but her mind refuses to quieten. Frustration builds inside her, but she wipes it away, hoping for peace of mind. But the asteroid torments her.

She has imagined impact dozens of times, but the exact moment when rock hits rock replays over and over. That terrible first contact between the cosmos and earth. Up from impact comes a chant— one Rachel can’t discern at first.

Then she hears it.

Broken brain. Broken brain. Broken brain. Broken brain. Broken brain.

Rachel opens her eyes and she is sitting in a church basement with the suicide support group. They are gathered in a circle, but instead of facing inward, they’re all facing away; their backs are to Rachel. She quickly glances at them, expecting them to shift in their seats or turn to look at her, but none of them move a hair.

“Rachel,” Margo addresses her sharply. She’s sitting directly across from Rachel and is the only other one facing into the circle.

Rachel jumps. “Uh, ye—yeah?”

“You’re missing a shoe…” Margo points out. Rachel looks down and sees her bare foot on the rough, stain-resistant carpet.

Before Rachel can look around for the shoe, Margo continues, “Tell us about Iskra.”

Rachel is surprised by the directness of the demand. The soothing gentleness of Margo’s typical tone is gone, but no one else seems to notice.

“Did they have a broken brain?” Margo asks.

“Uh—”

“A broken brain,” Margo interrupts curtly, “or was it your fault?”

Rachel’s skin goes cold. “What?” Is all she can lamely say.

“It’s very simple if you think about it,” Margo explains, while she puts a mask over her head, one that droops off her face like melted wax.

“With suicide, it’s one of two things: it’s either your fault or it’s not.” She scoots her chair an inch closer to Rachel. Rachel jerks at the sudden movement.

Margo goes on, “If Iskra’s brain was broken, then their death was inevitable— nothing you could have done about it, except maybe give them more time.”

Margo scoots closer again. Rachel feels the urge to flee.

“Or it was a choice,” Margo scoots. “If it was a choice… it could be your fault.”

A sick feeling rises in Rachel’s stomach and up her throat. When Margo is only a few feet in front of her, Rachel instinctively scoots her own chair backward.

“You did call Iskra the night they died.” Margo scoots until she is close enough to touch Rachel. “Didn’t you?”

“Stop,” Rachel pleads, as she tries to scoot back again, only to find her back tight to a corner. Nowhere to run.

“You called Iskra not to ask how they were doing, reeling after their father’s suicide, nor did you call to make sure Iskra wasn’t at risk.”

“Stop it.”

“No,” Margo starts. breathing really loudly. “No, you called Iskra to… what, scare them? Scare them about the end of the world as if their world hadn’t already ended?”

The rest of the support group has disappeared. The church basement is dark and empty, save Rachel and Margo.

“I didn’t mean to scare them,” Rachel excuses as she desperately presses herself into the corner at her back, away from Margo’s breath that smells like death.

Margo laughs. “What else did you think would happen with that voicemail? Or, what if Iskra actually picked up the phone— how would that not have scared them?”

“I was scared,” Rachel’s voice trembles. “I just wanted to spend the end of the world with Iskra.”

Margo’s mask drips on Rachel’s knees. “Did it ever occur to you that you might be wrong?”

Rachel stutters, “I—I— I don’t— uh—” She tries to lift herself out of the chair, but her legs have fallen asleep. No matter how she struggles, she can’t move.

“God,” Margo scoffs, “what would be worse: for the asteroid to really hit or for you to be wrong?”

Rachel’s throat burns holding back tears.

“All this for nothing.” With her nose centimeters from Rachel’s, Margo sticks her fingers in Rachel’s mouth.

“So,” Margo goes on, as her fingers wriggle deeper, “is it a broken brain or is it your fault?” Margo’s whole hand is pressed against Rachel’s tongue. Rachel struggles to breathe, and tries to squirm free, but the harder she resists, the deeper Margo pushes.

“Your brother had a broken brain, too, didn’t he?” Margo asks. As Rachel gags on Margo’s hand, she grips Margo’s forearm and tugs as hard as she can, but Margo’s skin is wet and slippery.

“They say it’s hereditary. So, well, we all know what’s going to happen to you.”

Pinned at her front, Rachel frantically attempts escape from behind, pounding on the walls until they are pockmarked with fist-sized holes.

“When the time comes,” Margo pushes her arm deeper in, reaching down Rachel’s throat, “you’ll do it.”

Closing her eyes, Rachel wrestles but to no avail.

Then, as she opens her eyes again, she doesn’t see Margo sitting there. It’s Iskra who’s hand is in her mouth.

“Don’t,” Iskra growls.

In surprise, with a quick inhale, Rachel rockets to a standing position. Iskra’s hand slips out of her mouth, and Rachel bolts up out of the waterbed. In a delirium, she trips out of the bedroom. Breathing heavily, she darts her eyes all around, confused and unsure where she is. The dark house tells her nothing.

“Iskra,” Rachel says to the empty house. Briefly, Rachel thinks she hears Iskra walking around upstairs.

“There you are,” Rachel sighs, as though Iskra had only been in the bathroom this whole time.

But it isn’t Iskra upstairs. And Rachel realizes that quickly as her dream state fades. She stands frozen in the foyer, listening, but the noise doesn’t return.

Don’t.

Yet Rachel’s feet carry her towards the stairs. The first step creaks loudly under her. She pauses, listening for movement upstairs, but the house remains silent. Upward she goes, taking each stair one at a time. Her sweaty hand grips the bannister.

There’s no one up there. But her hands shake. At the top of the stairs, she pauses, wondering which bedroom to check first.

Why am I even checking? There’s no one here.

But she turns to the right and grabs the door handle to the bedroom. Taped up and down the door are kids’ crayon drawings— odd shapes that imply a cat or a person, but aren’t quite right. Rachel leans in closer to the drawings, listening for anything on the other side of the door. Nothing but the sound of her own rapid breathing.

Just do it.

She opens the door, just a crack at first, then slowly pushes until she can see the whole room. In the doorway, Rachel stands completely still, her eyes wide and mouth open. From surprise, her expression morphs to disturbed. “What the fuck?” She whispers, then clutches her mouth shut.

Found inside is a full home space compressed into one room. An amalgamation of random items litters the floor: an old ICEE cup, paper plates, a small TV set atop a crate, a few cardboard boxes, socks without their pair, crunched-on sunflower shells, crumpled up McDonald’s bags, magazines, used tissues, and in the corner are two large jugs of water. Beside the closet is a futon with blankets strewn over it. Left on the ceiling is a sky full of glow in the dark stars.

Rachel tenderly kneels down and runs her finger over the towel on the ground at her feet. It’s wet.

Rachel falls backward against the wall of the hallway, unable to look away from the room.

Someone has been here. The whole time… someone was here.

BUMP. Rachel jerks her attention down the hall towards the other bedroom.

They’re still here…

Without further investigation, Rachel bolts down the stairs, through the foyer, and then out the front door, not looking back or forward. Breathing heavily, the night greets her briefly before she loses her footing and sees– far too late– the sinkhole’s open mouth just inches off the curb.

She plummets down its throat, into darkness.

3:00 am 2 hours until impact

The sinkhole of Karst Cliff Street

In the cold, black sinkhole, Rachel falls down and down and down. Her lids flutter against the surface of her eyeballs. The air presses hard against the flat of her horizontal body, arching her neck upward, where she sees a sliver of light fast disappearing behind a wall of rock.

Anticipating impact any moment, Rachel falls and waits, falls and waits. But on she drops, plummeting faster and faster each second. In the absolute darkness, she can perceive nothing, but feels everything– especially unrelenting shame.

It’s my fault.

Unable to escape it, Rachel waits for impact– for it all to end.

But it isn’t rock she collides with at the bottom. When she hits freezing water, the air is knocked out of her chest and her skin burns from slapping against the hard surface. Gasping for air and unable to touch the ground, Rachel splashes desperately in the water. Blind, she can’t tell which direction she swims in. There is nothing around her to grab. No shore to swim toward. There is just nothingness.

She didn’t die. The epiphany drowns Rachel in sorrow– now, only more suffering awaits her. If the fall and water don’t kill me, the asteroid will. More violence will come. Defeat weighs her down. Out of breath after flailing about, she treads, letting the waves from her splashing fade and ripple. This water has only known her movement– underground and away from things that move. Only her ripples have grazed the surface. The water’s single other companion is the rock itself as it crumbles.

“Ow,” Rachel garbles, hitting her back against a rock. She splashes, trying to find it again, briefly panicking when she can’t feel it. Desperate, she flings her hands back to the spot. Choking, Rachel manages to haul herself out of the water and onto the rock, where she lies coughing. Only as the pain in her lungs and skin subsides does she notice the back pain again.

“My wings!” She sits upright, grasping blindly above and behind her, feeling for breaks in the frame. Colliding with the water broke the frames in some places, but to Rachel, in the dark, they feel completely destroyed. All my hard work for nothing.

Rachel curls into a ball. Now I won’t be able to sleep through it; the pain is too great. The asteroid will be here soon. But how long have I been down here? She has no way to know the time and thus the asteroid’s arrival at 5am. Each moment passing could be her last. Her body tenses in the cold and anticipation. She waits for the ground to quake around her, for the implosive sound of impact.

“It’s very simple if you think about it. With suicide, it’s one of two things: it’s either your fault or it’s not.”

It’s my fault.

Rachel weeps.

It erupts from her unexpectedly but ferociously. She sucks in for air, but chokes, the crying stuck in her chest. Gasping, she lets the sobbing out in short breaths, her chest aching. As her body convulses, stinging pain rips her back, like someone cutting off her wings. And all Rachel can do is experience it. Into the darkness around her, there is no running away. The guilt burns her skin, but she cannot retract her hand from the flame.

“I’m sorry,” Rachel whispers through her tears. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault.”

The only sound comes from water dripping off Rachel’s wings. There, of course, is no answer to Rachel’s apology.

Then, a twinkle. A light glimmers in the distance, like a star– so far away. From the corner of her eye, Rachel thinks it’s a lightning bug all the way down there with her. But as she stares, the light remains.

Is it a way out?

But, even if it is, Rachel begins to wonder if it’s worth it. Out– out where? Out– back to the surface to face another rock. The asteroid, the sinkhole, they are the same end. Futility stuck between the two. I’m trapped between two rocks at the end of the world.

What’s the point in moving? What’s the point trying to get to the light? Rachel even laughs at the insanity of it. She closes her eyes, seeking sleep. Stubbornly, she pursues it, elusive as it is. She grits her teeth against the stinging pain shooting through her wings. If I keep my eyes closed, sleep will eventually come. But it doesn’t. It resists her as stubbornly as she seeks it out.

After a few minutes, which may as well have been hours, in weary frustration, she sits up. The rock is too uncomfortable to sleep on. Sleep is impossible down here.

That leaves the choice: wait for the asteroid or don’t. But how would I do it down here? She imagines sinking into the water and letting it overtake her, or slamming her head against the rock. Those are her options.

When her eyes open, they find the distant light again. Maybe there’s something over there I can use. No matter what it is, it could give her options.

Still lying flat on the rock, Rachel reaches her hands as far as she can in each direction around her, searching for the edges of the rock she sits on. When the rock extends beyond her fingers, she inches forward on her side, carefully seeking out the invisible edge– the drop back into the dreaded waters.

She stops every few inches, shivering as her drenched body dries. Her wings dangling above her mimic cave stalactites as the water travels down and drips off the ends of her wing tips. She eyes the light up ahead.

With her fingertips growing sore and tattered, and the rock has still yet to end, Rachel stands up and takes a cautious step forward. Her foot lands on solid ground. She tries another. Then another. Until she is walking– tenderly, still– heading for the light. With every step, suicide gets closer and closer, yet it still isn’t real for Rachel. Clarity will come with the light.

Time ripples through the sinkhole. The further she goes forward, the deeper she takes herself back in time– back a few hours, then a few days, a week. Though she cannot hear or see the surface world, the rock tells her. The abyss of the sinkhole goes on and on. And no matter how long she walks, the light does not grow larger.

Suddenly, she drops again into cold water, which fills her lungs and chills her wings. “Ah!!” She spits as she breaches the surface. She flops around until eventually hitting rock once more, where she can pull herself out.

Rachel grows accustomed to the pattern as time passes: walk, swim, walk, swim, walk, swim, walk. Though it surprises her every time she doesn’t feel the ground under her foot, the panic in the water simmers, as she comes to learn that there is always another rock.

She feels the hole tremble around her. At first, she thinks it’s the asteroid, but then understands. No, I’m under the highway. The cars speeding up above rattle the cavern and Rachel in it. That means I’m near the mountains.

Deeper she goes. Until soon the light shines a bit brighter– closer. Rachel follows the sinkhole’s tunnel into the mountains, into ancient rock, underneath blue hills and smoky forests. The light leads the way.

Almost without noticing, Rachel stumbles into the source of the light: the abandoned car from the cul-de-sac. Its headlights are on, shining up like spotlights. Having tumbled down into the hole with the other houses, somehow it landed here, providing the only source of light in the entire sinkhole.

But the headlights are not helpful. The walls of the hole are too far away to be illuminated and, with the direction they are pointing, they don’t reveal the ground under Rachel’s feet. They are a beacon and that is all.

Rachel tries to get inside the car to look for anything that she could use, but it’s too smashed from the fall— the doors won’t even open. Anything inside is probably destroyed.

“Fuck,” Rachel whines, defeated and so weary. Her eyes are heavy, and she sometimes can’t tell when they are closed because of the darkness. But sleep has turned its back on her.

She leans against the crumpled hood of the car.

The asteroid will be here momentarily. The cave above her will collapse and as the earth is ripped open, it will fall into new depths, Iskra’s body with it. For that’s where Rachel now stands: underneath the cave where Iskra’s body remains swallowed by rock. There, down in the abyss, Rachel is alone with the choice. The same choice Iskra faced two weeks ago.

Do it.

Rachel shivers and shakes her head. She wants to say no, but instead the question forms: How?

A faint whistle rises up from below Rachel. Automatically she turns her head and looks around, though it is silly in the face of the darkness. Stretching out her arms in front of her, she tentatively walks just a few feet away to the left, where she feels a gentle breeze tickle the underside of her hands. She retracts, then slowly extends her arms again, back to the breeze.

Where is the wind coming from? Her foot shifts and finds the edge of the rock, except it isn’t water; it’s another hole. The wind blows up out of it.

Rachel can’t tell how big the hole is. She skirts the rim, but has no way to discern the true size. The wind picks up just enough to lift Rachel’s hair around her face. It dries her wet body. When she stands too close to the rim, her wings twitch instinctively, though she knows they could never carry her if she were to fall into the hole.

This could be my answer. I could jump and let the fall kill me.

“Iskra…” Rachel whispers. The wind continues to blow out of the hole, brushing against her front. But all else is silent.

In the abyss, the dark thoughts multiply exponentially– reflections so caustic they burn a hole through the compartment Rachel hides them away in, leaking out of her brain in a hot, bloody goo.

Iskra abandoned you. Left you here alone to face the asteroid by yourself.

A pebble slips at Rachel’s feet, inching her closer to the edge. The breath rises in her chest. I’m running out of time. The moment she’s been waiting for all weekend. A moment of choice: wait to die or die. Was this how Iskra felt? Standing underneath Iskra’s cave, tears run down Rachel’s cheeks.

“Iskra…” Rachel repeats, her voice quivering. Her feet slip another inch closer to the hole.

The inevitability of it all hits her.

“Iskra,” she whispers calmly. Still with no answer, she lets herself slip off the edge, dropping into the hole.

It’ll be over soon. The air rushes around Rachel’s ears as she falls. Her wings, tattered and broken, crumple under the weight of the wind. Down and down she goes, waiting for impact. It’s coming– the end.

Suddenly, the air catches in Rachel’s wings. Part of the chitin Rachel repaired lifts and holds the rising wind. Both her wings snatch her roughly, like a deployed parachute, jerking her out of downward motion, and lifting her up. The pain rushes through Rachel’s back and wings like electricity. She hangs limp as the wind embraces her. For a moment, she believes the pain to be impact. But as it subsides, and she feels the wind against her, she marvels at this strange flight.

The wind never falters– strong but gentle with Rachel– lifting her up and up. Feeling the air rush against her, she smiles into it, loving it as a friend. A friend. Familiar.

“Is that you?” Rachel asks.

Iskra’s long, dark hair tickled Rachel’s forehead, as she slept in class with Iskra sitting in front of her. Iskra’s arms were full with snacks from the gas station as they hurried through the rain back to the car. Iskra coughed after taking a hit in the mall bathroom. Iskra’s head landed on Rachel’s shoulder as they sat on the side of the road way past curfew with a busted tire, waiting for the tow truck.

Rachel’s body grazes the roof of the cavern as it narrows. She walks her hands along the rock, guiding herself out. Feeling the rock walls, she can now tell that the sinkhole is an upside down funnel: wide at the bottom, narrower at the top.

“Why are you helping me, if it was my fault?” Rachel wonders out loud, speaking into Iskra’s last breath as it carries her upward.

Orange streaks light up around Rachel, like plumes of smoke but bright orange in the black sinkhole. Her wide eyes remark them, the glow reflecting in the black of her dilated pupils.

“Unless…” Rachel’s voice echoes in the sinkhole, “Unless, I was wrong.”

Then, light. This time, sunlight— still far away. As Rachel floats on Iskra’s wind, the hole opens up, sunlight striving to reach for her. She breathes in fresh air.

“The sun has risen,” Rachel realizes.

Despite the chill of the sinkhole, her forearms and legs warm, as if next to a fire. She looks down at herself. Orange paints her forearms to the elbow, white and black dots peppered like stars.

Lengthening her arms, reaching her fingertips, the transformation comes like a stretch after a long confinement. She feels the warmth in her face– her cheeks and over her eyes. In the daylight, orange colors cross her face, white and black spots like freckles. Thin black lines criss-cross the orange, like streams of darkness cutting through the glow.

“It wasn’t inevitable.”

Nearing the surface, the light washes over her wings. Radiance. The chitin’s color returns and Rachel bathes in ecstasy. She imagines passing the asteroid as it falls, her wings lifting her as the rock falls in the opposite direction. Her own luminosity matches the plasma burning off the asteroid. They mirror one another. But instead of witnessing impact, Rachel sees a cave from a distance, from whence a massive flock of birds flies out into the daylight– every color blending together into one vision of survival, of return and renewal.

Rachel opens her eyes as she breaches the surface of the earth. The sinkhole had shrunk back to the size it was when Rachel arrived in the cul-de-sac. As the wind gently sets her down on the other side, Pervert the cat rubs against her legs before scampering forward, down the road.

The sun rises beyond the suburb and into it, Rachel smiles. “It wasn’t inevitable and it wasn’t my fault.”

The Rock Swallows Whole

When we crawled on all fours, reptilian, sails upon our backs, when massive swamps reached across the whole of a supercontinent, two tectonic plates locked mouths. Their kiss closed a primordial sea. In the lower lip’s descent, the crushing of earth scraped something out from its rocky tomb and the land bled— volcanoes erupting at the fault lines, spilling magma and soot. The land creased and as the two plates collided for millions of years, mountains arched their backs. 

From 15 miles beneath the ground rose a rock, there since the Earth’s birth. It ripped through the hot, wet puddles of creation, a great being, its alligator mouth wide open. It inhaled— the first breath— and stopped. Before snapping its jaws closed around the molten earth in its teeth, the beast hardened into limestone and marble. And the mouth that ripped open the flesh of the land waited— waited for the inevitable accumulation of millions of years’ worth of shifts that would one day drop the entire side of the canyon down its gullet, where things as permanent as rock lose themselves. In terrible stillness, it waited— hungry.

Obituary

Isaac “Ike” Petrović

Hard-working businessman and devoted father

Isaac “Ike” Petrović, 40, lost his battle with depression on Wednesday, September 24, 2008. 

Isaac was born on April 8, 1968 in Belgrade, Serbia to Anđelko and Cveta Petrović. Isaac and his family immigrated to the U.S, settling first in North Carolina, then later in Tennessee, where his father owned a small business. 

In 1980, Isaac graduated from Mountain Pass High School and went on to receive his bachelor’s degree in business from the University of Tennessee. Having learned from his father at a young age, Isaac was a natural businessman. After marrying Carolynne Essers in 1988, together they opened their own realty brokerage. 

Isaac’s infectious laughter and ambitious spirit will be missed. 

Isaac is survived by his wife, Carolynne, 42, and his daughter Iskra, 17. 

Appalachia 2008

A few weeks later

Day 1: Arrival

The charter bus crawled to a halt in front of Chalet Austere and the gaggle of empty-faced passengers inside clapped upon their safe arrival. Melding together into one hive mind, once one started clapping, they all clapped. But the bus driver ignored them, chewing his gum loudly, as his dead eyes scanned a clipboard. Passengers leaked out onto the cold driveway where the chalet staff awaited in-uniform, their eyes detached, but smiling wide, their teeth gritting as if their mouths were full of chalk.

Iskra gazed out their window at the back of the bus. Beyond the chalet, rising up from the south stood an immense rock formation, striking against the hills of green, red, and yellow. The late September afternoon sun blasted the face of the rock— golden orange, almost peach. In its dark shadow stood the chalet, swallowing up the trickle of guests with bags in-tow.

“It’s just for one weekend,” Iskra’s mother said as she rose to join her co-workers, pulling Iskra’s attention from the rock. Carolynne buttoned her blazer jacket, straightening up after the long journey from town up into the hills. 

“You could have left me at home,” Iskra said, their forehead still pressed against the window. 

Carolynne shook her head. “I can’t spend the weekend worried about you.” 

“But, I–”

“Carol,” a lanky man in a crisp blue suit called from the front of the bus, his eyes glued to his blackberry. “Carol, we need to uh touch base.” Patrick was just one of Carolynne’s many underlings, constantly circling around her in orbit, pecking at keyboards like birds pulling prey apart.

“Just a minute, Patrick,” Carolynne replied, grabbing her purse from the overhead compartment. She slung it over her shoulder and looked down at Iskra. “You shouldn’t be alone right now,” she whispered, as if ashamed to be talking to her child in front of the team. “I’m coming,” she assured Patrick, leaving Iskra alone in their seat. 

A low hum rose, shaking the window pane against Iskra’s forehead. Iskra glanced around the bus seeking the source, but heard that it was coming from outside. The hum grew louder. They closed their eyes, letting the hum ripple up their legs and arms, rushing up to their skull. Iskra could feel the earth tremble in their teeth. They swallowed the hum, feeling it slide down their throat like molasses and settle deep in their stomach, hardening, aching suddenly. Iskra felt sick, the hum rising back up in their esophogus like bile. Iskra opened their eyes again, but this time the rock stood closer behind the chalet than before. 

“Hey,” the busdriver shouted from his seat. The hum stopped. The bus was empty save for the two of them. “Time to depart,” he barked, looking at Iskra irritably from the rearview mirror above him.

Day #1: The Tour

“Welcome honored guests,” one of the smiling staff greeted in the foyer, all the group’s suitcases piled to the side. “I’m Stacey, the property manager, and I’m here all weekend to make this the best company retreat possible.” The gooey group of realtors and brokers clapped at Stacey’s subservience. 

“First thing,” Stacey continued, her bright red acrylics glittering against the cold light of the chalet, “I’ll show you around and make sure you’re real comfortable with where everything is and uh so you can get a lay of the land– Mark your territory, right?” She started laughing, cueing the rest, their half-throated chuckles caught in between mutters of agreement and acceptance. She spoke their language, one Iskra could never quite grasp. 

With Iskra lingering in the back, the group walked in a clump following behind Stacey through the chalet, the sound of their heels and dress shoes clicking gently across the dark hardwood.  

Stacey began, “The land was sold in 1919 to Jack Hinks– a coal baron. He opened many mines in this area. But he wanted a refuge, a sanctuary in the hills for him to escape to. Chalet Austere, he called it.” 

Stacey swung her arm towards a set of floor-to-ceiling windows facing the back of the property; the rock formation peering in back at them. “This site was chosen for its views, and its proximity to the majestic South Rugged Top.” 

Iskra stopped abruptly as the rock’s presence filled the room. It towered over everything, the canyon, the chalet, and the valley floodplain below. It felt larger from inside, refracted in a grotesque prism. The house was an altar at the base of a great being. Who watched.

“After the Hinks Family died off,” Stacey pressed on, walking backwards, “the land was sold to another coal operator who opened a mine dangerously close to South Rugged Top.” Stacey pointed to the far right side of the formation. “It’s completely out of view from here, of course,” Stacey elaborated, “the mine and the uh slate dump– But,” she quickly recovered, “it just goes to show how mineral-rich this area is. Not only coal, but the hills are full of marble, shale, quartzite, and granite.”

Nods of approval. 

“South Rugged Top goes by another name,” Stacey continued, taking on a spooky tone which the group chuckled haughtily at. “Locals call it the Rock Swallows Whole because from certain angles it looks like a big mouth.” As if playing with shadows, Stacey’s hands formed two halves of a mouth with jagged teeth in between– snapping closed– crushing bone. 

“From our Tennessee Sitting Room,” Stacey quickly pivoted, gesturing to the main gathering space just beyond the foyer, “you get beautiful scenic views of the landscape, like you get in every single room of the house.” Except perhaps the staff’s quarters.  

Iskra surveyed the base of the rock across the thin river canyon, up along the rock slides where a few sparse trees somehow clung to the pebbly slant, up further still to a graveyard of boulders— Iskra shivered — remnants from the larger whole that had once been there, that had been torn apart by geologic forces. Lifting their eyes even higher, Iskra followed the line of rock, its jawline, up to the highest point, where the rock broke into sharp pillars. Teeth.

They saw something scramble up part of the rock, then disappear in shadow. Maybe a deer, maybe a bobcat. Though from that distance Iskra could barely make it out, they saw something crawling— 

“Keep up, now,” Stacey called from up ahead. Iskra stood suddenly alone, as the rest of the group waited at the other end of the sitting room at bottom of a set of stairs leading to the bedrooms. Iskra shuffled over to the stairs, cheeks red, all those eyes on them. 

“There are twelve suites,” Stacey led the group through a long and wide hallway with double doors lining only one side. The liminal, softly beige hallway felt underground without windows. Strangely, Iskra had seen windows from outside, windows that should have overlooked the driveway out front. But from the inside, no such windows were there. This made the fluorescent overhead lights harsher, casting a dreamy glow over the seemingly endless hallway. The carpeting underfoot muffled their steps so that Iskra had to look down to make sure they were still walking.

Stacey continued, “Each suite has a balcony. The chalet was designed so each room faced South Rugged Top. The sunrise and sunset views are,” Stacey chef kissed, “high quality.” 

“Just a quick Q,” one of the young brokers in a grey suit piped up, “but– with all this scenic beauty– not that it’s not great,”

The rest of the group nodded along. “Sure, right, yeah,” they agreed.

“It’s great, for sure,” the broker continued, bolstered by the team having his back, “But my question has to do with vital communications– there is WiFi here, right?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Stacey assured him, her eyes wide ontop of a plastered smile. “We have excellent WiFi, in fact some of our prior business guests commented it was the best they’d ever seen.” Grunts and wows of approval swept through the group, the exhilaration of good bandwidth like a super-charged battery plugged into their nipples. 

After viewing the suites, Stacey led them down another set of stairs opening up to a large dining space with a long table stretching across the middle.

“This is our Royal Dining Room,” Stacey announced, “where you’ll enjoy 5-star breakfast, lunch, and dinner provided by our in-house Chef, Brayden.” 

“I spot the bar,” one of the realtors chirped pointing down the stairs towards the far corner. 

Clicking down from the last step, Stacey affirmed, “Yes, we are fully stocked for your stay. There’s enough there to knock out a herd of horses, but don’t try it! Even though I know some of you are killers,” more nervous chuckling, egged on by the forced laughter of the group. Everyone was pretending. Except the rock.  

Once Iskra stood at the base of the stairs, facing the wall of windows, South Rugged Top peered in at them, as if crouching down at a tiny bug. It saw them– studied them not as an interested observer, rather as a predator. But it wasn’t like the nature documentaries, not so black and white between to hunt or not hunt, to feed or go starving. There was something else– something intimate and suffocating.

“And we’re good to use this dining room as a conference room too, correct?” Carolynne asked rhetorically

“Absolutely,” Stacey consented, clapping her hands together so her rings clicked. “This chalet is yours for the weekend to use however you like. Mi casa su casa.” Nervous chuckling.

It amused Iskra to hear Stacey flip between a matte professionalism like a flight attendant and the familiar colloquialisms of the corporate-tongued. They wondered how many languages she could speak, how many ways she could put the same thing, if the words ever got stuck in her throat and if they do, does it hurt?

“We want you to have a good time,” Stacey concluded. “If you ever need me, I’m usually in the office,” she pointed down a small corridor separate from the flow of the house. “The staff are available 24/7 so just push one of the call buttons located throughout the chalet and let us know what you need.” She stepped sideways towards one wall where a white intercom was mounted at eye-level.

“I think, now,” Carolynne turned to the group, “it’s time we debrief, right, gang?” 

While the adults all took their seats at the table, a few staff members entered to take drink orders. Iskra snuck away. They skirted the far side of the room, then exited through a sliding glass door leading to a balcony. Stacey eyed them on their way out. 

The fresh outside air, chilly with the coming sunset, rushed against Iskra’s skin. They sighed and leaned on the rail where the balcony overlooked the canyon below and where a sliver of a river ran at the very bottom. They met South Rugged Top’s gaze above them. The setting sun cast its orange-red rays on the rock, lit up as if the light was coming from within. 

Iskra breathed in the cool air, sucking it in through their mouth, then out again hard. They struggled to catch their breath, as if they’d just run a mile. No matter how much they breathed in, their lungs felt empty. Iskra’s heart thudded loud enough for the birds in the trees to hear.

As they took deep, measured breaths, they watched the passage of the sun across the rockface, shadows lifting, then dropping away into the larger darkness of the canyon. In the quiet twilight, the rock faded to pale pink, then to soft grey, then blue and indigo like the coming dark. A few stars were already visible. Rain clouds were moving in from the south. They couldn’t stay out there much longer.

The soft hum of talking from inside filled the balcony only to be carried off by the breeze, ever-present and moaning, shaking the trees in the canyon below. Iskra couldn’t breathe inside, not with them and their incessant, empty words. They actually preferred the company of a rock– silent and honest. At Iskra’s back, the chalet waited with its mouth open wide for their eventual and inevitable return to its embrace. 

A thin streak of sweat brimmed their hairline, cold in the wind. Their hands felt clammy against the iron railing. Iskra gripped the railing to steady themself, but felt an engraving against their finger tips. 

No words accompanied the symbol. Someone had etched it. It looked new—

“Hey,” Carolynne said from the open sliding door. Iskra spun around, startled. 

“We’re done in there,” Carolynne continued on. “Time to get ready for dinner.” 

“I’ll be right there,” Iskra replied, hugging their arms in the mounting cold. Just a few more moments of air. Though they’d been outside for over 20 minutes, they still felt winded. 

Iskra fingered the engraving again, the lines deep into the iron. Whoever did this, it took them a long time. A long time kneeling on the cold balcony, etching, etching, etching, over and over again, like the river carving the canyon floor. Iskra knelt down to see the engraving, running their thumb over the lines, petting it. 

When they looked up at South Rugged Top, they felt themself drifting off, disassociating. Though they tried, Iskra couldn’t stop it, the trance. Their eyes watered staring at the rock, now completely concealed in darkness. Iskra kept rubbing the engraving, rhythmically lift up, slide down, lift up, slide down. Finally, Iskra gave way to double vision, letting the rock slip into two selves, blurring somewhere in the middle into something out of sight. 

Is this what it feels like? To just let yourself slip away? A coyote yipped somewhere in the distance. 

Day #1: The Hallway

Once back inside, Iskra found an empty dining room. They mounted the stairs alone, headed towards the suite they were sharing with Carolynne.

You shouldn’t be alone this weekend.

Iskra scoffed. Seeing how their mom interacted with everyone else, Iskra knew that they may be more alone here than they would be back at home in an empty house.

Dad was alone too. Iskra breathed deeply, anger and grief rising into their lungs. But I was there. I guess I just didn’t count.

It took Iskra what felt like forever to pass suites 1 through 11, then they turned right into a new corridor leading to suite 12– separate from everyone else. Their steps clunked softly against the carpet, the frayed edges of their jeans stuck underfoot. It smelled like lemons and the dry, textured scent of new carpet.

But at the door, Iskra felt a set of eyes on them, looking in from their periphery, just out of view. When they turned, they noticed a painting at the end of the corridor, just next to the suite door. Cast in dark colors and a sickly looking green-yellow, the painting lured Iskra closer.

A small placard next to the painting read,
Atropos (The Fates)

(Átropos/Las Parcas); Fransisco Goya;

from the Black Paintings collection

Iskra smiled faintly, imagining what the realtors and brokers down the hall would say about the painting. As always, they’d talk a lot yet say nothing. This painting demanded your truth; there’s no way they could face it. 

Iskra studied the fates– the lines and shadows distorting them, parts of them swallowed entirely by fabric. Then Iskra saw the scissors. Open, ready. Ready to cut something, to severe forever a link between two things. Maybe between two people.

He chose to severe our ties. 

Iskra shook their head, trying to clear away such intrusive thoughts. But over the last few weeks, since Iskra’s father’s death, the intrusions grew harder and angrier. 

They keep slipping into this hole and they aren’t entirely sure what’s in it with them. This hole is the bottom-line, the heart of the matter. But it feels uneven, wrong, so Iskra tries to claw their way out, only at the rim of the hole to fall down again. 

Help me understand. 

A scratching noise from behind pulled Iskra’s focus. But there was no one there, at either end of the hall. Iskra eyed the painting suspiciously. The scratching sound returned, this time from the other side of their suite door. Iskra pressed an ear against the wood, the scratching tickling the side of their neck like little teeth biting down. At first, it sounded like mice– short, quick scratches. But then the scratches became longer, sliding down the length of the door. Iskra saw for the briefest moment a hand slide out from under the door, reaching for their ankle. 

Iskra scrambled inside. 

“You alright?” Carolynne called from the bathroom. Iskra exhaled hard, scoffing at themself. 

“Yeah,” Iskra muttered, loosening their grip on the doorknob and meandering to their suitcase. 

“The staff already unpacked us,” Carolynne said, applying lipstick in the bathroom mirror.

Iskra changed into fresh clothes for dinner, running a brush through their hair absentmindedly. This was a weird place. Yet, they seemed to be the only one noticing. Was it grief making them see things? What was real?  

They glanced into the mirror poised gently ontop of the small dresser where their clothes had been neatly folded and tucked away. But in their reflection, Iskra wasn’t like themself. Shadows hung low under their eyes, their dark hair windswept and tangled. Their lips were pressed into a thin line. They inched closer to the glass, inspecting their sallow face. They looked older than 17. Not a child anymore. They looked like their father, the version of him closest to death. 

“You’ll feel better after you eat something,” Iskra whispered to themself. “You’ll feel better soon.” 

Carolynne scurried off before Iskra was ready, encouraging them to come downstairs soon. When the door shut behind her, the intercom box in their room gave a staticky hiss followed by a muffled voice. Iskra walked across the room to the intercom and pressed the button. 

“Hey, is someone trying to call?” They lifted their finger off the button. 

Silence, then a garbled sound, like someone struggling to breathe. 

“Hello?” Iskra whispered, eyes narrow, waiting for something to speak to them through the intercom, waiting for something to say their name, to call for them and them alone. 

Out of the eerie silence came Stacey’s peppy voice. “How can I help you, Miss Petrović?”

Iskra exhaled. “Sorry,” they added sheepishly, “I thought I heard someone calling. But it was too muffled to understand.” 

“Ah, I see,” Stacey replied, her voice even and certain. “Sorry about that Miss Petrović. Way out here, sometimes we get interference.” Stacey paused. “The rocks,” she said vaguely, “make the technology around here do weird things. So don’t worry if you hear static from the intercom.”

“Oh, okay, uh– thanks,” Iskra said, not sure how to end this conversation. Do they say “over”?

But Stacey had already left, on to the next thing, leaving Iskra standing by the intercom, listening.

Day #1: Dinner

Dinner started before Iskra got there, so they took the empty seat closest to the staircase, ready to bolt up to their room as soon as dinner was over. Carolynne stood up and clinked her spoon against her wine glass. 

“Excuse me, everyone,” Carolynne began, “I’d like to make a toast.” Her eyes, light green eyeshadow sparkling, scanned the length of the table, meeting the gaze of each of the eleven realtors and brokers present. But not Iskra’s. 

“This team, this family–”

Iskra rolled their eyes. 

“-- means more to me than anything. And I know y’all feel the same.” A murmur of agreement followed. 

More than anything. Iskra already knew that. And their father had known it too. 

“We’ve had some struggles this year, that’s for sure.” The table fell awkwardly quiet, everyone there thinking about what no one would dare speak of. Eyes darted at Iskra, then quickly averted. Iskra’s very presence was a screaming reminder that most of them had not the first clue how to talk about suicide. Or even how to feel about it. 

But there was another presence in their silence too. Iskra didn’t understand what this whole financial crisis was about, but the adults did and they were afraid. 

“We’ve faced adversity and are still standing where others have fallen short.” Carolynne smiled, revealing some lipstick on her teeth. “And we’re gonna keep going. Our most profitable year lies ahead.”

“Hear, hear!” One of the brokers cheered, raising his glass high. The others followed suit, the sound of glasses clinking broke the tension in the room. 

Seated next to Iskra was Patrick, who filled his plate with ham, green beans and squash, biscuits, and cheesy potato casserole. He met Iskra’s gaze and gestured toward the mountains of food across the table. 

Iskra shook their head. They weren’t hungry, not one bit. And hadn’t been for the last few weeks. It was hard just to keep food down. Carolynne nudged them with her foot under the table. Iskra took a biscuit to appease Carolynne. But they could only nibble here and there, slinking deeper and deeper into the background as Carolynne and her team talked shop. 

“What about the Tenth-and-Hudson neighborhood, Chuck?” Carolynne asked before sipping her wine. 

Chuck swallowed the large bite of ham in his mouth. “Tenth-and-Hudson, we’ve got by the horns. I can feel it. I met with several developers– you know, uh, the Hansen Group, McDonald & McDonald.”

“Those guys are tough puppies to crack,” one of the realtors commented. “Unless you can get them in a bar with a couple drinks– couple, uh, martinis, if I remember right.” He chuckled. 

The group laughed back knowingly. “Oh, yeah,” rippled around the table, “One or two martinis. Maybe more if the night goes well.” Iskra had never heard laughter so hallow.

“But is Tenth-and-Hudson worth our time and investment?” Carolynne challenged. “The crash is hitting that area hard.”

The biscuit in Iskra’s mouth was dry. But they kept chewing.

The adults filled their plates a second time, some still chewing on what came before. 

“You’ve gotta be hungry for it, Chuck,” Carolynne continued. “Think you can swallow that big a bite?”

Down on the flats of their feet, Iskra felt again a low hum vibrating under the floor. It started faint, quivering beneath Iskra’s shoes. What happened on the bus when they first arrived was happening again. Louder it grew. Iskra looked around the table, but no one else reacted. What an odd little roar. It tickled Iskra’s shins, then up through their thighs. 

“I’m all about drilling down,” someone said. “Brass tax.”

Iskra gulped their glass of water, pulpy bites of biscuit still stuck to the roof of their mouth. The hum danced off the rim of their glass, vibrating Iskra’s lips and teeth. It tasted like soil, like limestone.

“Can we get a sit down with him?”

As Iskra swallowed, they let everything go down with it– the limestone too. The shivering hum filled their lungs. 

“We gotta move the goalpost.”

More food, more wine, more, more.

“I’ll ping you about it.”

Iskra coughed, feeling the hum stuck in their chest. COUGH, COUGH.

Carolynne clapped at Iskra’s back. “You alright?” 

“Just–” COUGH COUGH, “Just went down the wrong pipe.” 

The hum stopped. 

Scraping their chair loudly against the floor, Iskra stood abruptly, as if looking for the sound and where it had run off to. All eyes stared at them. South Rugged Top leaned down from the heights outside. Fearing it might crush the chalet, Iskra inched towards the stairs. 

“I’m-I’m gonna head up,” Iskra stammered. “Long day.” 

The adults’ pity stuck to the back of Iskra’s neck like a red sunburn. When the windows did not come crashing in, from the top of the stairs, Iskra turned around. South Rugged Top remained in the distance, where it had been for millenia, lurking big and hungry. But it had just moments ago felt so close. 

“I’m just tired,” Iskra assured themself, turning back to the hallway. “I’m okay, I’m okay.” But their throat was sore. The night surrounded them.

Day #1: Bedroom

Midnight and still Iskra could not sleep. Carolynne snored lightly in the bed next to Iskra’s, deep in slumber after a few too many glasses of wine. Seeing that Carolynne would not wake, Iskra slipped silently out of bed, into a warm jacket, and stepped out onto the balcony. 

Crickets sounded alongside the soft lull of the river down in the canyon below. A waxing moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the north face of the rock, casting a few slippery shadows that had a life of their own.

Iskra watched South Rugged Top with growing suspicion, as if it would come to life, slink down the hillside, and swallow the whole house. 

Since their father’s death, sleep evaded Iskra like a thought forgotten on the tip of their tongue. But Iskra had hopes that this weekend would offer them a chance to sleep and recover. So far, no such luck. 

From their jacket pocket, Iskra retrieved a tightly-rolled joint– one they bought from their school’s dealer after their dad died. Iskra had held onto it, waiting for the right moment to smoke it. Desperate for sleep, this was the moment. Having stolen Carolynne’s lighter, Iskra lit the joint and inhaled hard, the smoke scorching their tongue and throat. They held in a cough, but it sputtered through their tight lips anyway, stifled to keep from waking Carolynne.  

Joint smoking between their fingers, Iskra leaned over the railing, seeing how high the chalet sat on top of the hill. The back patio attached to the dining room turned down into a wooden staircase leading to a rope bridge connecting the chalet’s side of the canyon to the rock’s. The tops of the oak and maple trees could be seen below. An owl hooted from the woods. They looked up again, back at the rock.

As the moon reappeared from behind the clouds, Iskra spotted a light on South Rugged Top. An orb of white light shined bright in the darkness from one of South Rugged Top’s cliff sides. Iskra could not tell what it was coming from. At first, they thought it might be someone’s flashlight, but it didn’t shake or move as if held by a human hand. It hovered, quite still, in-place. 

“Iskra,” Carolynne groggily rasped from the sliding glass door. Iskra clutched their chest, then sighed, embarrassed to have been so frightened. “What are you doing out here? It’s late.” 

Iskra automatically hid the joint behind their back, but Carolynne could smell what they were doing. Waiting to be scolded, Iskra stood watching their mom, but Carolynne studied them quietly before asking, “So, do you have my lighter?”

Sheepishly, Iskra handed Carolynne her lighter, revealing the joint in their hand. But Carolynne pretended not to notice.

Carolynne took out a cigarette from a gold case in the pocket of her robe. The spark from her lighter illuminated her round face, some leftover makeup still smeared across her eyes. She exhaled, stepping beside Iskra, leaning her elbows on the railing. 

“You know, Iskra,” Carolynne finally spoke, breaking the silence between them. “Your father loved you very much.” 

Iskra scoffed, then immediately felt bad for it. They hadn’t expected their mother to say something so vulnerable. 

“How can that be true?” Iskra finally asked, “If he loved me, why did he choose to leave– to leave forever?”

Carolynne looked blankly out over the horizon. She didn’t seem to notice South Rugged Top at all, nor the light shining from it. “I wonder the same thing, Iskra,” Carolynne said softly. She took a long drag, the ash glowing orange. 

Anger broiled in Iskra’s throat. But they spoke at the same register as Carolynne. “It just doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Is it supposed to?” Carolynne replied. “Maybe if you get it, that means you’re, you know, at risk or something.” One more drag and Carolynne snuffed out the cigarette and tossed the butt over the edge of the balcony. 

“Did you seriously just fucking litter?” Iskra gawked. But Carolynne didn’t respond. She waved her hand at Iskra dismissively, as she opened the sliding door and retreated to her bed. The smell of smoke lingered behind her. 

Iskra’s eyes naturally drifted to the rock again, the light still shining. How did Carolynne not notice?

Click.

The sound of Carolynne’s lighter turned Iskra toward the door, but there was no one there. Iskra looked down to the patio below– no sign of anyone there either. The flick of the lighter had sounded so clear to Iskra, but maybe they were hearing things– too tired.

Iskra’s stomach growled. They returned their gaze to the rock, but the light was gone. The moon fell back behind the clouds.

Day #1: Midnight Snack

Iskra tip-toed down the stairs leading to the dining room, then circled behind a corner to find the kitchen. They opened the fridge, illuminating the dark room, and saw someone else standing there. 

Iskra inhaled fast. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” The woman smiled. She held in one hand a bottle of bleach, but no rags or scrub brushes. Iskra could smell it, though, scanning the kitchen, there was no sign she had been cleaning in here. 

“It’s okay,” Iskra replied hesitantly. “I was just hungry.” The staff had a nametag on, but Iskra couldn’t make out the name– not just because of the dark, but because it looked like she had slowly scratched her own name out over the years. 

The woman tapped her fingernails rhythmically against the countertop. “Nothing like a midnight snack when you can’t sleep,” she said, still smiling. Click, click, click, click, went her nails. The woman’s brevity would have been awkward had the conversation been during the daytime, but in the dark, her curtness felt agitated, uneasy, like something was about to happen. The dread hovered heavily between them.  

Iskra placed a tupperware of the leftover beans in the microwave, its quiet hum the only sound in the room. The light cast an orange glow on them both as they watched the circling Tupperware, the countdown bringing closer and closer the inevitable.

“I don’t mean to disturb your work,” Iskra said as they pulled the tupperware from the microwave. Though what work she had been doing, Iskra wasn’t sure. Why had she been standing here in the dark? 

They grabbed a fork, and gobbled the beans up quick, eager to get back to their room, and away from this person who stared at them through the dark. Iskra placed the empty Tupperware in the sink, and turned to leave. 

“You didn’t disturb me,” the woman replied way too late, as if Iskra had only just then spoken. 

Iskra stood half in the doorway, half out, waiting for her to say more, but nothing came. 

Just as Iskra turned to leave, the woman said, “I’ve cleaned up after a suicide once.”

“What?” Iskra’s cheeks flushed and a knot inched up their throat. 

“Yeah,” the staff continued. Iskra could hear the look on her face in the dark kitchen: a smile that was hungry with a voice so careless such mangled thoughts came sliding on out, pooling around Iskra’s feet. “Yeah, that’s right. It fell on me because, well, no one else would do it. They all asked me because I know suicide– I know it intimately.” She spoke in a marching cadence; unafraid.

“You know it?” Iskra repeated, unsure, considering bolting up the stairs back to bed. 

“And it knows me,” she added, taking a step closer to Iskra, who could only make out her faint silhouette in the night. “Once you come into contact with it, it never leaves you.” 

“Who was it?” Iskra prodded, morbidly curious. “Who killed themself?” Iskra leaned against the far edge of the counter, daring the woman to say more.

And she took the bait. “A guest,” she replied. “Obviously.” She inhaled slowly, then sighed, “He was wealthy, came here on a family vacation. Wasn’t too long ago now, actually.” 

“Why did he do it?” Iskra pressed, leaning forward. This was the most any adult had spoken to them about suicide and it was Iskra’s best chance at finding some real answers. “Do you know why he did it?”

But the staff warned them, “Careful,” in a harsh whisper, piercing through the dark. “Careful where you step on that path.” 

The overhead light suddenly flicked on. From across the room, Iskra saw Stacey looking at them curiously.

“Are you alright?” Stacey asked quietly. “Who were you talking to?”

The woman was gone. 

“I-uh,” Iskra was lost for words. Stacey stared, waiting for an answer. 

With the light on, suddenly the house felt scarier than before. The room span, Iskra wasn’t sure which way was up. Their heart pounded. Sweat brimmed their hairline and suddenly their arms felt hot, then chilled. 

“Were you having a bad dream?” Stacey asked.

Iskra groaned, pressing their hand to their forehead. They were burning up. Iskra gagged, then bolted to the sink, puking into it. Stacey rushed over and placed a gentle hand on their back. Iskra tried to shoo her away, but Stacey returned with a towel. Iskra turned on the faucet to wash the bile away and to run the cold water on their face, then dried off with the towel. 

“Let’s get you back to bed,” Stacey said slowly, gently guiding them back to the stairs. “You’ll feel better once you rest.” 

“I’ll feel better,” Iskra agreed in a monotone voice, letting the pressure from Stacey’s hand move them through the chalet and back to their room.

Day 2: Visit 1

Iskra slept through breakfast. Carolynne left them be, so they woke alone in their bedroom to a note on their bedside table. 

“Hope you slept well. Big day today. Check the itinerary to find us when you wake up.”

Remembering the night before, Iskra got up and immediately went out onto the balcony, searching for the source of the light on South Rugged Top. Iskra saw no signs of light now in the daylight, however, they could make out what looked like a small cave. Was that where the light was coming from? 

Iskra could breathe easier that morning, the rock’s presence not as intense as it was the night before. Maybe they had just been tired. Today, it simply looked like a wet rock in the rain. 

The sound of voices below the balcony drew Iskra’s attention. Looking down over the railing, Iskra saw their mother along with the rest of the team, dressed in brand new hiking boots and rainjackets on the patio. It must be time for the hike. 

Iskra dressed quickly, then went downstairs, passed through the dining room, then out the back door onto the patio. But they found themself alone, the group already crossed the bridge, walking towards the trail. 

Hearing the convivial tone of the group even from a distance, Iskra decided that they would hike alone instead. There wasn’t room in them for the group’s coded language this morning. Their throat hurt still, scratching and tickling as if they’d swallowed bugs. 

The late morning was chilly, the wind stronger than usual. A slight drizzle wetted the ground. Iskra wished they had brought hair ties; the wind pulled their hair in different directions, tangling and knotting despite Iskra’s best efforts to pull it under the hood of their coat. 

Up they hiked over the first hill, where they spotted the Ridgeline trail, leading up to South Rugged Top. The rest of the hikers’ bright colored raincoats were still visible up the trailhead, as they marched higher and higher. But Iskra wanted to find another way up, hopefully one leading to the source of light Iskra saw the night before. 

The trail broke off into two, one leading up to the group, the other leading towards “Old Homestead”. Iskra took the second trail, narrower and less maintained than the other. They glanced back over their shoulder at the group headed out of sight, and for a moment considered running to catch up with them. This trail was dark, Kudzu swallowing nearby trees, rocks, and bramble, veiling the path in shadow. The other trail was light, out in the open. Alone, the trail was too quiet. If they hurried now, they could rejoin the group and see the lookout point. 

But, Iskra knew they weren’t wanted. Maybe someone would have woken Iskra up, if they felt otherwise. But they left Iskra behind, not so much as one look back. 

The night Iskra heard the news about their father’s death, they dreamed of snow– all around, after a storm covered everything in the neighborhood. Iskra lay in the road just beyond their front yard, the snow around them like a vast, white ocean. They couldn’t move. When their father opened the front door and walked to his car, Iskra tried to cry out, but their voice was trapped somewhere deep in their chest, dancing on their stomach. The words came out as a strained muffle– stifled like they were underwater. Their father couldn’t hear them, and closed the car door shut behind him. As he backed down the driveway, Iskra felt the urgency to get his attention. The implication, Iskra knew, was that he’d leave if he didn’t see them– leave to do the unthinkable.  

“Daaad,” Iskra rasped, but he was already driving away, the red glow of his tail lights soon disappeared in a cold mist. When Iskra woke up, their hands were still frozen and they wondered when Dad would come home, before remembering.  

It was drizzling when Iskra arrived at the old homestead– an abandoned cabin left in disrepair, tucked in the trees. All around the cabin, the leaves had fallen from the trees, creating a circle of debris and barren branches. Iskra’s boots crunched as they approached what was left of the cabin’s front porch. 

They stopped and drew their attention up to the window on the second floor– pitch darkness lurked inside. The possibility of something watching just barely out of sight made Iskra see the faintest white of someone’s eyes in the window. 

A cold breeze rattled the branches overhead, like the trees were warning them of something– something spoken in a language Iskra didn’t understand. Their breath quickened in their throat. 

“Hello?” Iskra found themself asking aloud, calling into the window. There was no one home, Iskra knew, and yet they called out anyway. They waited for a response, for the slightest sound of movement, fearful they may have found someone who didn’t want to be found. 

Iskra stepped backwards, unable to turn away from the window. The branches of the trees bent backward in the mounting wind, their spines arching so far they might snap. SLAP, SLAP, SLAP. The shutters banged against the side of the house in the wind. 

Iskra backed themself away from the cabin, returning to the trail, and pressed on, leaving the abandoned home as quickly as possible. Up higher into the hills they climbed, the path growing steeper. Iskra had to stop several times for breath, their legs shaking more and more with each step. Soon, the trees began to clear, revealing a rocky terrain. 

Out they looked behind them, from where they’d come, spotting the chalet nearly at eye-level across the canyon. Boulders lay scattered around them, most larger than Iskra. 

Squeezing between the boulders, Iskra followed a rocky path up further, until finally they reached a cliffside, flat and wide enough for Iskra to stand comfortably. Gazing out over the horizon, Iskra had clear view of the woods and the valley below. They must be close to the top. The clouds were beginning to clear, revealing patches of blue sky, pushed along by the wind.

Just around the corner, barely visible from the cliff, Iskra made out the slate dump Stacey had pointed out on the tour– coal refuse left the hillside ashy and grey. It reached up the side of the rock like a wound, the gravel like exposed flesh.

A soft howling sound resonated from behind them. When they turned, Iskra found the cave, its mouth open beneath two long slabs of rock meeting into a V-shape. Aside from the wind, it was eerily silent in the wake of South Rugged Top, watching closely from above. 

The pebbles crunched underfoot as Iskra approached the cave. No sign of the light Iskra had seen the night before. But dread surrounded them, as if laced in the air they were breathing. At the threshold of the cave entrance, Iskra stopped and, once again, called out, “Hello?” Only to hear their own voice reply. 

Iskra stared into the darkness, willing their feet to keep going, yet unable to move. The breath of the cave sucked Iskra in, but they stayed planted where they stood, watching their dark hair rise and tremble in the breeze. 

The police found Iskra’s father in the woods near their neighborhood– alone, lying still under a tree, curled up in a ball, like a child playing hide and seek. An empty, orange pill bottle lay next to him, the white cap half-stuck under dead leaves. 

Iskra hadn’t been there when they found him. But they’d heard the police talking with Carolynne at their house. Iskra waited up the carpeted stairs, out of view from the front door, but could hear everything– including their theory that he’d had second thoughts and tried to crawl toward the edge of the woods, where he might have been seen. But it was too late. 

“Many have second thoughts,” the officer added, as Carolynne stood with her hand over her mouth. 

It was that idea that frightened Iskra the most– that you could make a decision that drastic, that violent, then realize, quite suddenly, that you made a mistake. To fall under an idea’s spell, then awake terribly too late. 

Iskra inhaled short and quick, as if waking up from a deep sleep, and found themself standing in total darkness. The sun had set hours ago and the moon was already high in the sky. 

“What the fuck?” They muttered, looking all around them for an answer– where the time had gone. 

They shook out their hands, anxiously stepping back away from the cave. Upon turning around, they saw the chalet, all lit up and glowing in the night. Even from that distance, they could make out the sound of music playing. 

Trembling, Iskra re-traced their steps back down the rock and onto the trail. The woods were pitch black, blocking most of the moonlight. Careful not to lose the trail, Iskra wound through the woods, until they saw a light up ahead. Maybe it was someone coming to look for them. 

Iskra followed the light until they found themself back at the old homestead. A candle glowed from the second story window. 

“Hello?” Iskra called through the dark. “It’s Iskra; I’m okay!” They added, suspecting maybe it was someone from the chalet up there searching for Iskra, who hadn’t been seen all day. But no response followed.  

“Are you in there?” Iskra asked, stepping onto the front stoop. 

Slowly, Iskra pushed open the door, its hinges creaking miserably. A small room unfolded in front of them, nothing inside but an old mattress next to a fireplace. The light of the candle upstairs illuminated the ladder leading up to the loft. 

Creeeeeakk…

Creeeeeakk …

Each footstep felt like their last; the warped wooden floorboards were in danger of breaking at any moment. 

“Hello?” Iskra looked up the ladder but saw no one. Gingerly, they climbed up and stepped into a room much colder than downstairs, even with the candle lit in the far corner. Iskra peered through the dark and saw that, surrounding the candle, was a small altar. 

“What is that?” Iskra mumbled, their eyes desperate in the dark. They inched closer. 

SNAP! Iskra’s right foot fell through the floor. Their pants got stuck in the splinters, stopping them from falling straight through. Iskra pried their foot loose, heart thudding. The floor had left a bite mark around Iskra’s ankle, red and splintered. 

Breathing heavily, they knelt in front of the altar and found in a semi circle around the candle three cast iron pots. In one was what looked like rotten berries. In the other, a mysterious liquid Iskra couldn’t identify in the dark. And in the third, hair. A slab of Gneiss, with waves of black and white sediment, sat between them and the candle. Etched on the wall behind the candle was the same symbol Iskra had seen carved into the railing at the chalet.

Iskra was interrupting a ritual.

Iskra fell backward from kneeling and scrambled to stand up, their legs trembling. They backed up to the window and looked out, then heard something moving below. 

A pale white arm extended out from under the porch, dragging out a bald head, blue with veins, and a naked body. He groaned as if his stomach was falling out of him. Iskra held their mouth shut, shallowly breathing in and out, their eyes locked on the man crawling out from under the cabin. 

As the man slowly stood, Iskra hid under the window sill. They waited until they heard the sound of leaves cracking to slowly lift their eyes just over the sill and look down. The pale man swayed from side to side, confused for a moment, then quite suddenly darted off into the woods at full speed.

As fast as they could without falling through the ceiling again, Iskra rushed to the ladder, hurried down, and ran out the front door onto the trail, running in the opposite direction of the pale man. 

They felt eyes on them the whole way down the mountain– someone watching from behind trees, in shadow. They didn’t dare turn around. They ran, they sprinted across the bridge, away from the crawling thing dragging itself through the dirt. 

Day #2: The Moonlight Party

It was the night of the full moon. 

A disheveled Iskra stumbled across the chalet’s back patio and into a party already underway. The diningroom had been transformed into a ballroom. Dressed in black suits and dresses, Carolynne’s team drank and socialized, while a DJ played from the corner. Stacey marched to and fro conspiring with her assistant and the caterer, making sure everything was perfect. 

Though Iskra’s hair was tangled in leaves and twigs from their flight down the mountain, the line of staff holding trays of flute glasses and hors d'oeuvres didn’t seem to notice. Their big, vacant smiles greeted Iskra as one offered, “Sparkling water?”

Blankly, Iskra accepted, holding the glass awkwardly as their eyes fell into a stare, the “Moonlight Party” fuzzy and pulling back into the distance. At their back awaited a wide open mouth, teeth sharp, perched in darkness, ready the moment they turn around. 

“Iskra, there you are,” Carolynne’s black heels clicked as they walked up to Iskra at the edge of the party. Her face looked pink; she’d been drinking. “Did you have a good day?” She asked, her attention on a circle of brokers chatting. “Didn’t see you very much.” 

So no one had come to look for them. Whoever it was who lit the candle in the abandoned cabin, they didn’t come from the chalet. Iskra had been gone for almost 12 hours, yet hadn’t been missed.   

“Yeah,” Iskra answered, still staring off, not looking at their mother. And as Carolynne walked off to rejoin the group, Iskra muttered, “Not that you care.” 

Alone, Iskra skirted the party and walked up the stairs, unnoticed. Iskra clenched their fists and bit their tongue to keep from crying. At the top of the stairs, before turning into the hallway, Iskra spotted another painting, one they hadn’t noticed before.

“Drowning Dog; Fransisco Goya;

from the Black Paintings collection”

The dog’s nose hovered just above the water, looking at the wave swelling, heading his way. 

Didn’t see you very much, implying Carolynne had seen Iskra, though Iskra knew she hadn’t. Pain swelled in Iskra’s chest. Forgettable, that’s what they amounted to. 

Down in the dining room and patio, the party continued, laughter and music rising like a tide up the stairs. The current, agitated and strong, swirled around Iskra’s ankles as the water kept rising, until soon Iskra tread in place, their feet no longer able to touch the bottom. 

Breathe. The water lapped at Iskra’s chin as they inhaled sharply, lips lifting up into the air. The ceiling was approaching fast, the water hoisting Iskra higher and higher. The oxygen going into Iskra’s lungs burned, breath harder and harder to find. 

Breathe. But it hurt so bad; they didn’t want to try. Iskra watched as the swell from downstairs arched up, inching towards them. The waters swallowed up the party, leaving the strangest sound– this low moan coming from the water itself. 

Maybe drowning would feel better. They let the water overtake them, submerged entirely, floating in the blue, lit up from the shining lights downstairs. When they closed their eyes, they saw South Rugged Top. The muffled moan of the water met the low hum of the rock, wrapping Iskra in a vibrating blanket. There they drifted off, the water hardening into stone around them, yet just as fluid, like paint. Iskra imagined their skull, crystalline and glimmering even in the dark abyss of rock. 

Scratch, scratch, scratch. The sound penetrated the quietude of the deep. When Iskra opened their eyes again, they stood in the hallway, the waters having receded, and the party lively downstairs. 

Iskra took one last look at the painting of the dog, then walked down the hallway towards the suite. But after a few steps, Iskra felt that they were no longer alone in the corridor. Again came the scratching sound, fingernails getting tangled and stuck in carpet. Iskra could hear it just over their shoulder. Scratch, scratch, scratch, like footsteps. 

Something was crawling on the ground behind them. 

Iskra bolted forward and slammed shut the suite door as fast as they could. Iskra rushed over to the balcony, hurling their silent sobs over the edge, quivering and gasping. But the pain didn’t go away. And the music played on downstairs. 

South Rugged Top faced them. Iskra stared at it angrily, feeling cornered– trapped between the lights downstairs and the dark mountain, between two hungry things. Through the open sliding glass door poured out heat and noise from inside, licking Iskra’s back like a sickly sweat. Breathing down their neck. 

The bedroom door slammed behind Iskra. 

“Just came to reapply,” Carolynne waved her lipstick tube and stood in front of the mirror. The care she put into each stroke of the lipstick irritated Iskra. 

“Why are you celebrating?” Iskra blurted, their voice harsh and judgmental. 

Carolynne sighed, like she was disappointed by the question. “It’s a retreat,” she replied, popping her lips in the mirror, “there’s always a party on the last night. And we worked hard this weekend– strategies for new markets. There is a path forward through all this mess.”

Iskra learned about the market crash in waves as their parents talked worriedly in the kitchen late at night. At first, the housing market was a little jumpy, that’s all. Everyone was highly motivated. But then, the water started rising. Mortgages, CDOs, and stocks– meaningless words that had their father up late every night, staring at the kitchen table, mindlessly shoveling peanuts into his mouth. CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH. While Carolynne slept, he ate and waited, dread filling the house so that even from their bedroom, Iskra could feel their dad’s presence. He sat there like a prisoner waiting for his day. Waiting for time to inevitably pass. Waiting for the fallout. Afraid and alone. 

At his funeral, Carolynne said she couldn’t have married anyone else. No one else could have understood her work– her obsession. They were in it together, their own brokerage. She romanticized that partner dynamic, acting as if the market crash had nothing to do with his death, as if the crash didn’t even really exist. As if he didn’t die by suicide. Her husband by title, but maybe more of a coworker.

“One of your coworkers,” Iskra spat viciously, “died three weeks ago.” 

Carolynne set the lipstick inside her makeup bag and stepped towards where Iskra stood on the balcony. 

“Your father would want us to be celebrating,” she said, taking both of Iskra’s hands in her own. She was giddy. “This is big, honey,” she explained, “we’re going to corner the foreclosure market! We’ll be the only ones doing that in our area. We’ll sell foreclosed houses; they’re popping up faster than we can sell them. We’ll have the best quarter yet!”

Iskra threw their mom’s hands down, away from them. 

Iskra pictured the woods, the dark, green place where the police found their dad. They pictured him after taking the pills, coughing, vomiting. 

“WOOOOOOOOO!” Came cheers from the patio below. 

“Mom, I–” 

But Carolynne didn’t hear; she was already walking back towards the door, back to the party. 

“I’ll see you in a few hours!” She called over her shoulder on the way out.

The sound of the door closing stung Iskra so that tears welled up in their eyes. They knew that the clicking of the door shut meant what Iskra had to say would never be said. It was finished. Decided. It was the same certainty they felt in the dream, stuck in snow, unable to speak, unable to get their father’s attention. The burning in their throat crawled up the sides of their esophogus. 

The full moon filled the sky. Iskra gazed up into it, arching their neck backward, seeing the shining stars, needing air, needing to open up– their body felt tense like a barricade. 

South Rugged Top glowed in the moonlight and then, just like the night before, there appeared a circle of light up the rock. It hung in perfect stillness on the cliffside. The mouth of the cave opened up again before Iskra; they remembered standing in front of it, hearing it breathe in and out. What was that light coming from? Was it the pale man? Iskra’s stomach dropped, thinking about a man wandering the woods just behind the chalet. And they knew he was patrolling somewhere out there, waiting for them to come back. 

“No way,” Iskra muttered to themself, dispelling the mere possibility of returning to that horrible place. They would ignore the light and the rock. It was so obviously simple, so simple it was a relief. They’d be leaving the next day anyway.  

They pressed against the railing to push themself back toward the sliding door when they felt something scratchy brush against their hand. There carved again was the symbol. 

They knelt down on their knees, this time trying to see a bigger picture to the symbol– searching for meaning. Iskra thought of ideas, but how could they possibly know? It was pointless. All of it pointless. Exhaustion wrapped around Iskra, pressing hard like miles of rock weighing down on them. They felt so tired that they wondered why try? Why try to figure out the symbol? Why try to find the source of the light coming from the cave? Why try to understand something that is going to be forever obscured, just out of sight, like what lies inside a black hole? 

Iskra finally got the energy to drag themself into bed. Tomorrow, they’d leave the chalet and South Rugged Top. Relief was coming. Just wait until tomorrow. Just wait until morning. 

But come morning, they opened their eyes to sunlight, kneeling on the cliffs, facing South Rugged Top.

Day #3: Visit 2

The urge to cry rose up in Iskra’s throat, lodged in the back like Iskra had swallowed their terror, dense as a marble. 

“No, no, no, no,” they muttered, still kneeling. They rubbed their face— am I here? 

They stumbled into a standing position, squinting in the bright morning light, until they bumped into one of the boulders at their back. The rains yesterday had passed, leaving a bright, blue day. Once able to see again, Iskra gazed at the cave, just a few yards away. Even the Sun couldn’t breech the mouth’s dark shadow. 

Someone shifted in the thicket below.

Iskra sprinted blindly down the mountain as fast as they could. Around every tree, Iskra thought they saw the pale man, running parallel, chasing them to the bridge. Branches and bramble tore up the bottoms of Iskra’s already tender feet, but they didn’t notice, hurling themselves towards the chalet. 

We’re leaving soon, we’re leaving soon.

But the smell of smoke stopped them. 

Up ahead, they could make out a thin wall of white smoke passing through the trees. 

They hurried through the smoke, coughing, desperate to stay on the trail though it was hard to see. Soon, Iskra recognized where they were, and around the next bend stood the old homestead, completely ablaze, the flames inches from the trees. 

“Holy shit!” Iskra gasped, covering their mouth and nose with their arm, as they pushed through, headed toward the bridge. They ran, and ran, and ran until they leapt across the last few feet of the bridge. Their barefeet patted hard against the patio, then they barged into the dining room, where Carolynne and all the others were having breakfast. 

“The old homestead is on fire!” Iskra shouted, their voice echoing through the quiet chalet. 

At first, no one responded. They just stared at them. Mouths full, another forkful on the way, paused mid-air, as Iskra stood there breathing heavily, covered in leaves and dirt, dressed in their pajamas and barefoot. Stacey, standing in a corner, looked on them with disgust.

“Iskra,” Carolynne slowly stood up speaking softly, “are you okay?”

“I’m serious!” Iskra pointed out the wall of windows looking out over the hillside. “The cabin is on fire, if we don’t hurry, it might–” Iskra stopped. The hillside was completely clear– no smoke, no fire, only the autumnal leaves glowing orange and yellow in the sun. 

Iskra stared in disbelief, scanning the woods insistently, but saw nothing unusual. Iskra could feel all the eyes on them. They slowly turned around. 

Iskra stammered, “It– it must have been– been put out–”

Carolynne stepped closer to them, with one hand held out like Iskra was a wild animal. “Honey,” she said gently, more gently than she’d spoken to Iskra in years. And Iskra knew it was only because she was embarassed. “Iskra, you’re bleeding.”

“I–” Iskra’s knees stung; their eyes darted down and saw blood covering both, little pieces of gravel stuck in their flesh. 

The moments passed like years standing there in the awkward silence. Their cheeks burned. They were being eaten alive in front of everyone, the gravel threatening to swallow their knees and their legs and up their torso, up across their face, until the sooty dirt filled their eyes, nose, and mouth. Every inch of them belonged to something else. 

Iskra, keeping their gaze down, said nothing and floated past the group to the stairs. Carolynne followed gingerly behind, but Iskra could barely hear her footsteps, everything muffled around them. Walking wasn’t one foot in front of the other; it was Iskra’s feet inches off the ground, gliding through the chalet like a sailboat upon the water. If they moved a muscle, the spell would break and everything would come crashing down. The rock would come for them. 

Carolynne closed the bedroom door shut behind them and watched Iskra with growing fear and, in that moment, suspicion. Iskra sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly ahead. 

“Is…” Carolynne began, her hands on her hips, “Is this you trying to freak out my team? I know you don’t like them, Iskra, but this is a little bit extreme.” 

Iskra didn’t say anything, didn’t move. They were numb. And no one cared. 

“I want you to apologize,” Carolynne continued, pacing the floor. “I want you to go back and apologize to everyone for scaring them. This is the last day of the retreat and I don’t want it to end like this.” 

“I don’t want it to end like this either,” Iskra agreed quietly. 

“I’m going back down there,” Carolynne concluded, not having heard Iskra at all. “Clean yourself up and come down when you’re ready.” 

Alone in the room, Iskra listened to the heater hum from Carolynne’s side of the room. The charter bus would arrive in six hours, come late afternoon. Maybe if they kept still, then those six hours would pass over them like water. They’d been swimming since they arrived, swimming against a feverish current. Survival instinct had kept their nose above water. But it was getting harder and harder to tread. All Iskra could do now was float, let the water take them. Finally, they let their nose drop below the surface. And they relished how easy it was.

The intercom hissed awake, static shredding the quietude of the room. Iskra ignored it as Stacey had said to. But it hissed again. And again. And again. Finally, a voice. 

“Hey,” someone whispered. Iskra jolted up out of their seat; it sounded like the voice was in the room with them. “Hey,” the voice repeated, drawing Iskra back to the intercom. 

“Who is this?” Iskra asked into the speaker, their lips dry. 

But the voice ignored their question. 

“Did you know that this whole area used to be underwater?” To Iskra, it sounded like the staff person from the other night in the kitchen. But they couldn’t be sure through all of the static, distorting the voice into an eerie melody.

“Who is this?” Iskra repeated with irritation. 

It took the voice a moment to respond, smiling through the silence. “Imagine it,” she whispered harshly, enchanted and maniacal. “We are standing on an island, surrounded by an ocean that’s no longer here.” 

Iskra said nothing, their breath quickening in their chest. 

“Can you feel them?” The voice continued in a low register. “The shells, the coral, the algae. Do you feel them beneath your feet? Squirming, pressed down and down and down, ground up under all that earth, all that rock.”

Silence. Iskra looked down at their feet, ankle-deep in clear, blue water, the hardwood floor visible on the bottom. They could feel the prickle of cracked shells against the bottoms of their feet. And the pull of the tide, small waves colliding against their shins. Iskra closed their eyes, letting the sounds of the chalet drift away, only hearing the sound of water. And then, yes, movement. 

“I can,” Iskra said smiling. “I can feel them.” They waded over to the bed and sat down, watching the afternoon sun shine in, glittering off the blue water. They stared into it, unable to look away, a faint grin plastered to their face. 

Day #3: Visit 3

As the afternoon’s shadow began to lift into the hills, Iskra’s legs stood them up and walked absently to the balcony. Carolynne and her team sat on the patio below, drinking and snacking, enjoying the last few hours of the retreat. 

“This was so productive,” one said to Carolynne and the others vigorously agreed, sounding in Iskra’s ears like a dull, bleeting sound. 

Another said, “We work hard and we play hard.” 

Iskra stood out of sight from the patio, in the doorframe, gazing out at South Rugged Top. A chill went down their spine; they shouldn’t be looking. They darted their eyes away, tucking their chin to their chest. Iskra craved more of the rock, but was afraid to return their gaze to it; The Rock Swallows Whole may not give it back again. That’s what Stacey had called it on the tour. The name she mocked.

The rock’s other name– suddenly forgotten– got swept away. It felt clinical when Iskra thought back on the vague memory, this name that felt like it belonged to some place else. What else could the rock be called but swallows whole? So hungry.

They dared not look because the rock could devour Iskra’s scrutiny, then every last inch of them until there was nothing left to eat— until Iskra’s bones bleached in the sun. No, light couldn’t follow into the rock’s gullet. Iskra’s flesh caught in the teeth would rot, but in the beast’s stomach, Iskra’s body would churn with the dirt and the rock in their immortal passages through deep time, a motion incomprehensible to the human eye. While their body decomposed and crystalized into the rock, Iskra’s soul— what would being devoured do to the soul? Perhaps death’s very nature would change in the darkness of the rubble. Though after 100 million years, their spine may glitter as an opalized fossil— like oil spilled on asphalt, shining bright blue, green, and purple — Iskra’s soul would leave no traces.

“Lots of great ideas this retreat,” Carolynne congratulated, her voice authoritative. “But we need to debrief on this fast. How do we implement? Let’s talk about that on the drive home.”

Iskra’s eyes glazed over, the rock blurring, expanding as they squinted, reaching towards them. It wanted Iskra; they could feel it now and, though terrified, they couldn’t help but also feel cherished. What sort of love is this? 

The charter bus would arrive in a few hours. “I have time,” Iskra muttered– time to be with the rock, to stand in its mouth, to stare into the cave, waiting for what it would show them. Oh God, how they didn’t want to move. Just stay still. But their feet carried them anyway, downstairs, and through the dining room, while the others on the patio retreated inside to pack, passing Iskra blindly. 

 Iskra wasn’t afraid of being caught. They didn’t rush or sneak, they just walked, waiting for someone to spot them and stop them. If only someone would notice and reach out and say, “Hey, where are you going?” They’d turn around and leave the rock behind forever. But no one said a thing. And so Iskra kept going. 

On the path, it felt like it was already night. Iskra floated up the hills, breath even and steady. The destination was inevitable, Iskra couldn’t turn around even if they wanted to. Oh, but they wanted to. Terror tugged at them to go back, to get away from the beast. But Iskra couldn’t change the path of their feet. 

When the path led to the old homestead, Iskra saw the blackened and charred roof, caved in. The fire had ripped the house open. The air was still. So there had been a fire after all. One only Iskra had seen. The bond between person and place hung like a song in Iskra’s throat. Horrified, they felt at home. 

Iskra returned inside the house, climbed the ladder up to the second floor, and stood, gazing up and out at the trees and the kudzu, small pieces of sky just barely visible. 

Only when Iskra stood in that spot without the roof did they notice that the Rock Swallows Whole leaned over the cabin, glowing red in the late evening sun. And the Black Gum trees in the distance all around had turned a deep, blood red too. They stood in what felt like a giant mouth, the red-pink womb surrounding them. The rock towered over everything, its presence exerting its own gravity so that Iskra struggled to breathe deeply. It was watching them. Waiting for them. 

“I won’t be long,” Iskra said, chin tilted up at the rock above. It was all coming so soon, Iskra trembled. But their feet knew the way. And so they went. The last bit of the hike was treacherous, but Iskra scaled it with ease, though their hands quivered. 

“Whew, I made it,” Iskra sighed in resigned relief– the sound of their voice comforting– as they passed between the boulders at the cliff. The sun had set. Iskra looked down the cliff back at the chalet. All the lights were out, no one there anymore. They had left without Iskra. 

The distance between the cliffside and the chalet might as well have been a thousand miles. The idea of returning was unreachable, buried deep in a neural pathway that might have lit up before– before Iskra met the rock. Tears welled up in their eyes. They could turn back, but Iskra knew they wouldn’t. 

None of this was a choice anymore. The moon rose in the sky.

A cold light landed against Iskra’s back. When they turned, they found the orb of light they’d seen since the first night here, floating in the air, beaming out from inside the cave. That’s when Iskra saw it– the symbol that had followed them around the chalet all weekend. 

The two slabs of rock above the cave met in a v-shap, just above the mouth, like arms reaching up. The orb of light was the dot in between. Like the orb of light was falling down, down something’s gullet. Plummeting to extermination, the dot stretched out– pleading. The expression begged for mercy, to catch itself, to fly— anything to prevent the agony of dropping. But mercy lies at the bottom, at the horizon of the Blackhole, at the point of no return, in the stomach.

Face-to-face with the cave, they noticed something arranged in a line just at the cave’s lip. Kneeling down, Iskra saw that it was the cast iron pots they’d seen at the alter in the old homestead. Iskra let one finger gently dip into the furthest left pot. Crushed berries. Iskra ate one– bitter and hard, making them salivate. They plunged their other hand into the middle pot, pulling back fingers dripping red. They ran their blood-soaked fingers along the limestone underfoot. When they reached for the third and final pot, they found it empty. 

What had been in the pot before? Iskra couldn’t remember now. 

Iskra heard a low hisssssss— a gentle vibration in the ground. Transfixed, they listened, feeling their bones shift with the quaking underfoot.

Then a firecracker— POP. The earth shook. POP, POP— POP! 

But the echo— that was the worst sound of all. The rupturing of the rock echoed in the front of their teeth, cold and wrong.

Up above them, the great being shifted, like feet moving under a blanket. And it let Iskra see out of the corner of their eye. Brief. But the movement made their eyes sting, like looking into the sun. Fleeting, the motion was over almost immediately, like nothing had moved at all. Such a dissonance that the rock’s turn felt imminent, happening, then long gone. The ground quaked beneath their feet, until they stumbled backward into the cave, when it then stopped.

Day #3: In the cave

Inside, Iskra’s arms chilled against a gentle, cold breath coming from deep in the cave. Drip, drip, drip. The limestone ground underfoot met Iskra’s feet with a gravelly hiss as they glided deeper into the cave, letting the darkness envelope them. They peered into the depths, seeking the source of the orb of light. 

Iskra looked behind them at the cave mouth, now a small dot of white light in a sea of blackness. 

“Hello?” Someone called from the entrance. The hairs on Iskra’s neck rose; it sounded just like Iskra. When they looked back at the mouth of the cave, they saw themself far away in silhouette, peering into the darkness. But when Iskra tried to call back, no sound came out. Soon, they were alone again, Iskra having gone back to the chalet. Only to return the next day. It was all so inevitable. Iskra was powerless to stop it.

Up ahead, coming out of the cave wall was a mouth made of crystals. It formed a cavity big enough to stand in. As the moon shone into the cave, Iskra found where the orb of light was coming from. The moonlight danced off the crystals, then shot out of the cave into the sky for Iskra to see.

It had all led right here. 

A low hum climbed out from the depths of the cave, shaking the ground beneath their feet, tickling Iskra’s legs. The same hum Iskra had heard when they first arrived. All that time, the rock had been talking to them. Singing and flashing lights to get their attention. They were wanted.

Iskra turned around and found the crystal cavity wide open- had it been that large just moments ago? At first, they couldn’t move closer; their feet were rooted into the rock, unbudging. But when the hum reached their lower mandible, they opened their mouth, and a sob slipped through Iskra’s clenched jaws. They clutched their mouth, tears flowing down onto their fingers. They slipped their body into the mouth, the points of the crystals sharp and jagged, tearing at their skin. 

The moonlight fell all around them in a sparkling veil, captured forever in the crystals. “It’s beautiful,” they whispered, their cheeks still damp from crying. One of the crystal’s sharp edges dug into Iskra’s cheek, pulling at their flesh, tearing into a thin, red line.

Then, it all went dark. From that pitch black night came stars and galaxies, surrounding Iskra as they floated through space. Were they floating up or down? Forward or back? Directionless, Iskra let the darkness of the universe take over; too tired to fight it anymore. 

It became hard for Iskra to breathe, compression against their chest dense. All over their body– tingles. Little pin pricks. They could no longer feel their legs. They felt the sharp teeth like bursts of light, but they had lost touch with the space around those teeth– whatever was being eaten. That flesh is nothing now. Other things slipped away too– the chalet, the last few days, the last few years, their name. Time folded. 

When Iskra opened their eyes, red smeared the crystal walls around them– blood. 

Maybe I can still crawl out. But it was too late. The Rock Swallows Whole chewed Iskra up, grinding their skin and bones into a pulp stuck to the crystals. The rock sheared their hair.

“Dad,” Iskra whispered, so close to understanding. So close, but they couldn’t breathe. Stars all around them. Everything hurt and, God, it felt marvelous. The density of the entire universe pressed upon them, squeezing little pieces of them out, like dirt and oil in a pore. With each pinch, they were cleansed. 

Then they saw him– their dad. He lay on his back on a bed of decomposing leaves staring up at the sky– grey, like it was about to rain. Iskra lay on their back too, head tilted to the side, watching him. They were so close they could have touched. But they didn’t. When their father finally turned his head, he looked at them in terror. 

“No,” he rasped, the effects of the pills beginning to take hold. He clumsily rolled onto his stomach and started crawling towards Iskra who felt the gravity of this moment, this fleeting moment. They tried to roll over too, but they couldn’t; they were stuck. 

“Dad,” Iskra gasped, their chest heavy and caving in. They reached for him, fingertips scratched, bleeding, exposed. The look in their father’s eyes revealed to Iskra that they should be afraid, that they are doing something wrong. Only seeing the horrified look in his sunken eyes scared Iskra. The fear gripped their throat, building pressure until their skull popped.

Their thoughts started leaking out of their open head, a flowing river, stretching into the endless. Their father disappeared and Iskra knew they’d never see him again. 

Iskra’s river carved through the rock over millenia and Iskra watched it all– thousands of years passing before them as easy as water through a sift. But the loneliness overwhelmed them, not felt as a human emotion but as a physical phenomenon as real as breaking a rib. CRACK. POP. CRACK. 

Iskra slid down the rock’s throat, the feeling of falling becoming permanent until they realized they were swimming in the rock as fluid as water. But dark. The darkest water Iskra had ever known. The blackness all around was punctuated only by momentary flickers of light from crystals, from ore. Like stars.

The Rock Swallows Whole gazed down at the dark valley below. Flashlights danced in the blackness, hurried footsteps in the woods, voices calling out, searching. 

Inside the cave, Iskra stood in a narrow crevice, facing in, away from oxygen. Iskra’s right leg jolted, once, twice, again, as Iskra took their last breaths, suffocated by the rock. They could still feel the teeth of the rock against their tattered skin, but now all they saw was darkness– no crystals, no universe, no blood. Like prey mesmerized by dazzling lights, they’d been lulled into the rock’s jaws. And…

The Rock Swallows Whole.

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