Break From Reality. Daily.
“You used to believe in the truth.”
The memory of Emily’s words whispered through the dense swamp fog, causing me to yank my jacket tighter as rain trickled down my shivering neck. I crept forward, peering through the brush, the frigid water seeping into my boots as the humid air clung to my face.
Three weeks after her disappearance and I was close. I could feel it.
Patricia glared in annoyance at the frumpy reflection glaring back from her full-length mirror. Who are you and what have you done with my body? she mocked. Today was her 60th birthday, and her mood was turning sour. Dismayed at her sagging figure, Patricia mourned her youth. Gone were the lacy ‘barely there’ panties and sexy demi bras. Nowadays, she squeezed her rolls and dimples into spandex briefs and underwire that poked and pinched but did little to lift her drooping cleavage. Maybe Stanley can invent a bra with a built-in wooden shelf. She laughed sardonically at the vision. Aging could certainly be a bitter pill to swallow, and today, Patricia felt as though she was choking on hers.
Stanley would arrive soon. She tried on dress after dress and one by one they pooled into a heap at her feet. Too tight. Too short. This one amplified her heavy chest and the next one suctioned to her ample backside. Finally, peeved, and glistening with perspiration, Patricia sighed, gave her damp armpits the sniff test, and reached for the one dress she was comfortable in; a shapeless black frock with full sleeves and a modest neckline. It was not flattering, but, she chided, Stanley liked her just as she was.
A moment later Stanley’s car squealed into her driveway, rock music thumping through his open window. Patricia raised an eyebrow at the racket, then hurried to put on lipstick. It was sweet of him to take her out for her birthday. She would do her best to smile, even if she had to paint it on.
The vast, red expanse of the planet spread out in front of Rodriguez—nothing but scarlet cliffs and crimson dust as far as the eye could see. A single speck of white, the pearlescent Hub of SX129, stood at the crest of the distant hill, becoming a rusted orange as the sand kicked up. Rodriguez could feel the wind pressing in on the arms of his EVA suit as he turned to scan the horizon. He clicked commands into his bracer, and the display inside his helmet overlaid waves of neon green onto his vision.
“Nothing here but dead space. I’ve tried every scanner I have; are you sure you saw the signature over here?” he asked Emerald.
“The infrared lit up like a Christmas tree,” she said. “Alerts and all.”
“There’s no way it could be that easy. We are not finding evidence of alien life forms this quickly.” Rodriguez rolled his eyes even though he knew she couldn’t see them.
“I swear it was right here,” she said. “If you’re scared of a little wind, you can go back. I’m going to keep looking.” Her grayish form disappeared with the next swirl of dust.
“It’s hopeless,” said Jones. “Zeke’s probably dead already, just like everyone else.”
“It’s not hopeless,” said Nozomi. “We’ve been in tough scrapes before and we’re still here. We just need to kill those things before they kill us.”
Rapid footsteps echoed off metal walls from the extended hallway leading to the incinerator bay. Jones, Nozomi, and Conner watched through the triple-pane glass of the second-story control room as Zeke sprinted into the expanse below.
“He’s here,” Nozomi said. “And they’re chasing him!”
The flashlight slipped from his hand, spinning like a lighthouse as it floated up and out of reach. It settled bulb-first against the reactor room bulkhead 40 feet above, plunging Lee into darkness.
“Touché you bastard,” he yelled to the wayward light. “But I really don’t have time for this.”
Time, Lee mused while unhooking his tether, had apparently conspired with the fusion reactor and flashlight to kill him. Over the past hour, his life horizon shortened from what once seemed an eternity to perhaps no further than this moment.
Grit slid beneath my fingernails as I pushed hard soil off my face. Cracking open a coffin was one thing. Digging six feet below the surface was another thing altogether.. Each press of my palm brought another layer of dirt on my face making it more difficult to see in the dark space. The dirt was more compact the further down I was but began to muddy toward my exit. Hands slipped and struggled to find purchase.
That damn witch really did put a hex on me.
I shook my head, searching my pockets for anything useful. They should have buried me with a damn candle. Or at least a lighter. What was the point of dying from lung cancer if I didn’t have one in my pocket?
August 14th, 1997
Dr. Anderson suggested I write it all down–that it would be helpful to get the story on paper and out of my head. A day hasn’t gone by that I haven’t thought about it, but I’m not sure this will help at all. And it happened so long ago that I’m not sure how much of it is real and how much is just part of the nightmares that began afterward.
But I’ll do it because Dr. Anderson suggested it. He’s been so helpful in getting me to talk about it, especially since my parents never would.
So, here’s my story. I’m Violet Cooper and this is my journal entry. Everything you are about to read is true to the best of my recollection.
I was only eight years old when I rode the riverboat Twilight. That day Dad picked me up early from school. It was right before show-and-tell. I had been ready to show off two pennies that I had pressed flat on the South Side tracks when the school’s secretary, Ms. Richardson, poked her head into the classroom.
“Lillian, honey? Your daddy’s here.”
I whined in frustration but shoved the pennies into my pocket and said goodbye to my best friend, Rebecca Moyer. We made plans to meet up later to work on our clubhouse, then I followed Ms. Richardson out the front doors of the school.
Dad was waiting in front of his car, smiling. I was relieved. That morning at breakfast he hadn’t been smiling. He’d been shouting and making a scary face.
Shadows danced and crackle filled the sky with gentle snaps as light traced her features, mouth open, convulsing. The smoky aroma, choked out by the day’s freeze-dried dinner and sunflower seeds. A rancid scent lingered in a pool between her hands.
With a quick motion, he snatched the feather from behind her ear, marveling at the damage it might have caused. “Let me hold your hair back?”
Unmanageable, tangled and falling out, he said, “Was it worth it? Free stones for your new garden. A stupid idea.” He tried to tie it back, but her scalp released more, falling to the ground, most sticking to his hand.
