《In the Abyss》 Chapter 1: Death Aubree stepped on a woman¡¯s foot. "Ow." The woman¡¯s wrinkly face clenched in pain. She whispered: "My foot... My foot..." "I''m sorry." Aubree''s eyes immediately drifted around the aisle. Honey Nut Cheerios. Frosted Flakes. Chicken and Waffles. "I''m fine," the woman said. "I didn''t know your foot was there." "Well, it was. And I said I¡¯m fine." The woman began to limp away. "Do you¡ª" Aubree stammered. "Do you want me to get my manager?" The woman laughed. "Is your manager a doctor?" "Do you need a doctor?" Aubree said. But the woman just kept limping away. Aubree went back to restocking groceries. She put a raw chicken back on the shelf. It sorta looked like the woman''s face. Soon Aubree was back on register. A couple hours later, her closing manager Mike clocked in. Ten minutes late, as usual. "How''s it going, Aubree?" He pretended to write something on the pin-pad of Aubree''s register. He was around twenty-five¡ª a couple years younger than her, though his scraggly brown beard and dark eyes made him look older. "Alright, I guess," she said. "How are you?" He smirked. "I wanna fucking die." Aubree forced a smile back. It was busy the rest of the day. Because of the Fourth of July, probably. The Fourth of July was always good for business. All the regulars showed up. The creepy guy with a thick gray mustache came to her line. He handed her a box of noodles and said: "How''s it goin'', sweetie?" "Good." "Got any plans this weekend?" "No." "Any dates?" Aubree scanned the box and and gave it back to him. "You can stop by my place if you want,¡± he said laughing. ¡°You know I¡¯m just kiddin¡¯. Here you go, sweetie.¡± He paid cash and left. Aubree''s nose twitched. That Kiss song played over the loudspeaker for the millionth time. A baby had been crying for a whole half-hour. The scanners on all the registers kept beeping and beeping like a poorly conducted chorus of robots. Customer after customer after customer. They shuffled in mindless throngs towards the checkout lines with giant cart-fulls of groceries. ¡°Hi. How are you?¡± ¡°Do you have a loyalty card?¡± ¡°Would you like a bag for this?¡± ¡°Thanks. Have a nice day.¡± Aubree had repeated the same greetings and partings and questions hundreds and hundreds of times¡ª so many, that her words had long since lost all meaning, and barely even sounded like English. A guy budged to the front of her line with a long receipt. "Hey. The grapes were supposed to be on sale for two-ninety-nine. But they came up as twelve-ninety-three." He shoved the receipt into her hands. "And you charged me twice for the chips." "Oh. Sorry." "I want a refund for both." Aubree read through the long list. Spaghetti. Ham. Mangos. Teriyaki sauce. Corn on the cob. Cat food. American cheese. Black beans. Tater tots. Almond milk. Tasty Cakes. ¡­ Her eyes glazed over. Letters and numbers mingled together into shapeless blotches of ink. "I''m sorry. I¡ªI can''t find them on the list." "Can''t find them?" He scoffed. What a stupid woman, he must have thought. Stupid. Illiterate. Inept. "The grapes are right there," he said. "Halfway down. Just look. With your eyes." Suddenly: "Okay. I see them," Aubree said, louder than she meant to. "So the grapes are actually two-ninety-nine per pound. Not per bag" Tearing the receipt from her hands, he scrutinized the fine text. She watched him for a while. The woman next in line rolled her eyes. "Can you start checking us out, please?" she said to Aubree. ¡°I''m sorry." Aubree''s face flushed. "You''re right. I should''ve been¡ª" The woman cut her off. "My father''s sick in the hospital, and needs soup. Now. So let''s speed this up, okay?" The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. ¡°Okay. Okay. Sorry.¡± ¡°Hey, wait a minute.¡± The man with the receipt glared at her. ¡°You still need to refund me for the chips.¡± The woman rolled her eyes again, but said nothing. Everyone was silent. What was Aubree supposed to do? Biting the inside of her lip, she decided to refund the chips first. It would take only a few seconds, afterall. But while she started doing that, she thought she heard the woman mutter: ¡°Unbelievable¡­¡± Huh? Had Aubree made the wrong choice, then? Should she have asked the man to wait until the line cleared? Her nose kept twitching for the next five hours. By the end, her whole face was numb. Now she could go home. Hurrah. The drive was only ten minutes. Whenever she drove home, Aubree would always pass a steel factory made up of giant metal tubes and girders and an exhaust pipe that spewed black fumes into the air all day every day. Because of the timing, she''d always see the same middle-aged woman sitting on a company bench, smoking, her dark eyes sunk down on the pavement. Home. Her mother was watching TV. "How was your day?" her mother said. Aubree thought about Mike''s answer. "Alright, I guess,¡± she said, heading for the stairs. ¡°Feeling kinda tired. I¡¯m gonna head to bed.¡± Her mom took a sip of wine. ¡°Fine. Whatever.¡± ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°It¡¯s just, I thought we could watch a movie together,¡± her mom said. ¡°But I guess you¡¯re always too tired for anything.¡± Aubree clutched the stair railing. Her eyes lingered on a painting of a meadow that hung over the fireplace. ¡°Goodnight, Aubree,¡± her mom said. ¡°Goodnight, mom.¡± Aubree lay in bed, on her phone, scrolling. Through Youtube, mostly. She used to watch a lot of video essays about movies, especially Ghibli or Disney movies. After a while, she had exhausted those topics, and resorted to videos about films she didn''t particularly like, or care about, like anything about superheroes. She just liked hearing people talk. But tonight, she couldn¡¯t stomach watching anything in her recommendations. ¡°Why Ant-Man 2 is a Cinematic Disaster¡± ¡°The Secret Genius of Minions: The Rise of Gru¡± ¡°Nihilism in Rick and Morty¡± Her mind numbed, and her neck ached as she scrolled and scrolled, descending deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper and¡ª You are twenty-seven years old. She tossed her phone onto the bed. Now she was searching her closet for one of her old sketchbooks. She found one, buried under some binders and notebooks from high school. She skimmed through it, tasting the decade¡¯s worth of dust that had floated up from the pages. Her drawings were pretty alright. A little amateurish, sure; the heads were too small, and the legs were too long. But they seemed like a promising start. She had filled nearly every page with original characters, mostly from her movie concept. She grabbed a pencil and opened up a blank page. She pressed the pencil tip against the rough paper, and moved her hand. But it felt wrong and disorienting, like driving a car with the steering wheel on the opposite side. Her attempts at drawing a face resembled those of a middle-schooler who watched too much anime. And now her hand began to cramp. She threw the sketchbook on the ground and googled: ¡°When does the human brain stop growing?¡± Twenty-five, apparently. That night, she dreamt that she was in high school again. During lunch, an active shooter broke in and started gunning down the students. Screams and gunfire pierced through the air. Soon, most of her classmates lay dead, covered in bullet holes, bleeding all across the marble floor. The gunman, at first, was just some guy. A student, maybe. But then he suddenly morphed into Aubree''s dad. His face was red with fury, and a vein pulsating on his temple. But he was also sobbing. Aubree cried too, and screamed at him to stop. But then he started shooting at her, and said he wouldn''t stop until she was dead. While he fired, she hid underneath the lunch table, before escaping into the hallway. But the bullets now flew in her direction. She ran and ran, dodging the bullets, until one struck her in the leg. She fell, and then her dad¡ª Aubree woke up, drenched in sweat. It was two in the morning. "I''d like to walk around in your mind someday I''d like to walk all over the things you say to me." She was singing one of her mother''s favorite songs as she walked. The summer drought had dried up the riverbank. Aubree saw a couple dead frogs there; flies had already swarmed their bloated corpses. Crossing the bridge, she gazed down at the pond, at the patch of golden lily pads, upon which those frogs had surely seen better days. The lily pads drifted along together from a gentle breeze, leaving behind a trail of soft, caressing ripples. A moment later, a tampon sailed by and broke apart the patch. ¡°I would disturb your easy tranquility I''d turn away the sad impossibility of your smile¡± She found herself back at work later that afternoon. "Hey Aubree. How''s it going?" Mike said. Aubree shrugged. "Alright, I guess. How about you?" Mike smirked. "Oh, I think you know how I am." He raised his fist in the air and cheered: "I wanna fucking die!" Then he snickered, waiting for Aubree to smile back. "Why do you always say that?" Aubree said. Mike''s eyes widened, but he still smirked. "Huh?" "Why do you always say you wanna die?" He cleared his throat, and his smile dwindled a little. "You know I''m not serious about that. It''s just my twisted sense of humor. That''s all." "Yeah. I had a feeling it was that." A guy from across the store sneezed, and Aubree jumped a little. "I won''t make that joke again, if it''s making you uncomfortable," Mike said. "No, no, it''s not. I guess it''s not. I''m just curious, you know." Mike cleared his throat again. "Well, I wanna make it clear that I''m not actually suicidal, alright?" Aubree nodded. "I guess," Mike said, "it''s really easy to be nihilistic these days. Politicians are at each other''s throats, climate change is fucking up the planet. Stuff like that. Oh, and our jobs suck. I can''t stand being here forty hours a week. It''s driving me nuts. All the customers barking at me, the paperwork, standing around and wasting my life away. I don''t have to tell you how depressing it is. And it''s not just us; it''s the whole fucking world. I learned the other day that sixty percent of all jobs in this country are totally pointless. They''re made up by corporations just so we have busy work to do. It''s messed up, and I hate it. So, like, I don¡¯t wanna kill myself. But if humanity just got totally obliterated by a meteor tomorrow, I don¡¯t think that would be such a bad thing. Do you get what I''m saying?" He looked really sweaty all of a sudden. "Yeah, I guess I do," Aubree said. "Sorry." Mike scratched his beard. "I didn''t mean to go on such a depressing rant." "It''s alright. I get it." The guy sneezed again. Aubree jumped like last time. The whole rest of the day was slow. Barely any customers. Through the window, Aubree watched the sun set. Before she knew it, her shift was over. She drove past the steel factory again. Because of the setting sun, the clouds behind the factory looked like a giant inferno. The middle-aged woman sat on the company bench again, crying her eyes out. Chapter 2: A Trip to the Library Aubree really didn''t want to spend her day off babysitting her cousin. But little Suzie''s parents had been fighting in court all week over alimony, and Aubree''s mom would be out cleaning until seven. Suzie wanted to go to the library to see a puppet show. On the car ride there, she screamed the lyrics of "Take Me Home, Country Roads" for fifteen minutes straight. "COUNTRY ROADS! TAKE ME HOME! TO THE PLACE! I BELONG! WEST VIRGINIA! MOUNTAIN MAMA!" Aubree put on headphones while driving even though it was illegal. The audience for the show consisted of a bunch of six and seven-year-olds. They sat huddled in the corner, glaring at the puppet theater. The puppeteer¡ª a young woman, Aubree judged from the voice¡ª performed "Little Red Riding Hood ''''. It was actually pretty good. The puppets looked professionally made; the wolf, covered in black fur, had round cartoony eyes that could open and close. Little Red Riding Hood wore a beautiful lace dress, with floral patterns decorated all over the fabric. The beedy eyes on her purple felt face made the puppet feel more abstract than human. More than that, though, Aubree found herself genuinely interested in the story. The wolf had a tragic backstory where humans killed his family. Now he planned on eating Red Riding Hood out of revenge. But the more he talked to her, the more he grew attached to the girl. Throughout the whole show, Aubree waited to see whether the wolf would carry out his plan, or spare his prey. In the end, friendship was more important to him than revenge. All the kids cheered, and Aubree clapped with them. "Good shit," she said, just quiet enough so no one heard her. The puppeteer emerged from the side of the stage, and took a bow. Lunch time. The grown-ups led the kids outside for a picnic. Suzie tugged at Aubree¡¯s shirt, beckoning her along. ¡°In a sec,¡± Aubree said. ¡°Wanna say hi to the puppeteer?¡± Suzie sighed and crossed her arms. Fuck the puppeteer, apparently. ¡°Come on. She looks nice.¡± The woman was packing the puppets away in a suitcase. She eyed Aubree first, then Suzie. ¡°Well, hello!¡± the woman said to Suzie. ¡°Did you like the show?¡± Suzie nodded. No smiles. ¡°Yup.¡± The woman laughed. ¡°Ready for lunchtime, huh?¡± Suzie nodded again, smiling this time. ¡°Yeah, I just wanted to say¡­¡± Aubree stammered. For some reason, she couldn¡¯t look the woman in the face. Not that she didn¡¯t want to. Her freckled amber skin, wide brown eyes, and pearly overbite touched Aubree in a way she couldn¡¯t describe.¡°I just wanted to say your show was really good. The puppets looked cool. I wasn¡¯t expecting it to be so high quality.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± The woman picked up the suitcase. ¡°I know what you mean. A lot of¡­ Well, I don¡¯t wanna curse, but you get a lot of crap shows, you know? Slapstick stuff. I think kids deserve better than that.¡± She gestured to Suzie. ¡°Is she your daughter?¡± ¡°...Er, no. My cousin.¡± ¡°Cool, cool. Well, my mom¡¯s out there ready to pick me up. It was nice meeting you¡­ what¡¯s your name?¡± ¡°Aubree.¡± ¡°And what¡¯s your name?¡± The woman knelt down closer to Suzie and had asked this in a cutesy tone. Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. ¡°Suzie.¡± ¡°Alright. Suzie, Aubree. Thanks for seeing the show. I¡¯ll be here next week.¡± She ran halfway towards the door, then turned. ¡°I¡¯m sorry! I forgot to tell you my name. It¡¯s Taylor. Alright, bye-bye!¡± Out the door she went. The whole rest of the week, Aubree ate very little. She didn''t know why. Every time she tried to eat breakfast, her heart would race, and she''d get all sweaty. By lunch time, she wouldn''t have much of an appetite either. By dinner, her stomach would be swirling¡ª probably out of hunger¡ª and yet she could barely eat without blood rushing through her body. She felt as if something exciting and terrifying was about to happen, like the apocalypse. At work, whenever she didn''t have a customer, Aubree would just stare out the window, at the grassy hill across the street. It dipped below the horizon, so she couldn¡¯t see what lay beyond it. But she kept imagining, and yearning. On the evening before her day off, she texted Suzie''s mom asking if her daughter wanted to see the puppet show at the library again. Her mom said sorry, but Suzie had gotten an allergic reaction from eating a walnut earlier that afternoon, and would be in the hospital for the next day or so. The next morning, Aubree found herself driving to the library by herself. It was rush-hour. The summer sun glared off the windows of all the cars. The air rippled from the blazing heat, as if reality were breaking apart. The AC in Aubree''s car had broken four years ago, so she sweltered while sitting in traffic. She arrived within a half hour, drenched in sweat. Maybe, she thought, no one would be there, so she''d be able to dry herself up in the bathroom. She threw the front door open. Around the corner, Aubree saw Taylor sitting alone on the windowsill near the kids'' corner. Aubree ducked behind a row of bookshelves. Shit. To get to the bathroom, she''d have to go through the kids'' section. Guess that meant that she was stuck here until the sweat dried off. Aubree now squatted behind the nonfiction O-Z section. She soon found herself skimming through a book about 19th century whaling. Apparently whale vomit had been used in expensive perfumes as a preservative. Interesting. After fifteen minutes, she decided that she looked dry enough. She emerged, casually, from out of the bookshelves. Taylor hadn''t moved. She just sat there on the windowsill, drawing in a sketchbook. She was wearing a pretty sunflower dress. Noticing Aubree, Taylor smiled. Her face glittered in the sunlight. "Oh hey! It''s you again!" Her voice sounded as bubbly as it did last week. "You look kinda sweaty." "Um..." Aubree''s face flushed. "Hot day. It''s a hot day." Taylor nodded. "You bet it is. Did you drive here?" "Yeah." "Don''t you have any AC?" Aubree stepped towards the fiction section on the opposite side of the library. "It''s been kinda funky lately. Anyway, I was just about to..." Taylor nodded again. "Here to check out a book? Don''t let me stop you. I''m just doodlin'' before the kids show up." "Oh." Aubree now inched closer towards Taylor. "You like to draw?" Turning her sketchbook towards Aubree, Taylor said: "Yup. Not much of an illustrator. Just designing puppets." Indeed, sketches of animal and abstract human characters littered the page. Nothing below their wastes had been filled in. ¡°You design the puppets?¡± Aubree said. ¡°Thought you just bought them on Etsy or something.¡± ¡°Nope.¡± Taylor went back to sketching. ¡°I design and build every puppet. It¡¯s my passion.¡± ¡°Oh. That¡¯s cool.¡± Neither spoke for what felt like an eternity. Aubree felt gross and awkward just standing there, saying nothing, soaked in half-dried sweat. ¡°Well, anyway,¡± Aubree said, her voice creaky. ¡°I guess I¡¯ll check out that book now.¡± Taylor smiled again. ¡°Okey dokey. Maybe I¡¯ll see you again later.¡± ¡°That¡¯d be cool.¡± Aubree lingered in the fiction section for a couple minutes, before circling the library for another half-hour. Somehow she ended up leaving with the whaling book. That night, Aubree lay in bed with her eyes closed. We are slow dancing naked on the precipice of a cliff under the full moon and there are sunflowers twirling at our feet and it smells earthy and sweet and I can hear Vivaldi echoing across the mountainscape and I bury my face in your chest and your skin is so soft and warm and reminds me of home and kiss your nipples and you lie me down in the grass and start fingering me and my muscles tense up and loosen at the same time and the crisp breath of autumn rushes through my heart and lungs and veins and my atoms are being swept away and suddenly my blood is rushing like I''m speeding down a roller coaster and I can hear the sizzling and crackling of nebulae millions of light-years away and I can see alien colors dwelling at the edge of the universe and I feel like I''m dying and being born at the same time and¡ª Chapter 3: Making Puppets That morning, Aubree ate some week-old brownies for breakfast. After brushing her teeth, she spat blood into the sink. It had been a few years since her last dentist appointment. Afterwards, she went for a walk around her neighborhood. Although not particularly hungry, she decided that brownies hadn¡¯t been a sufficient enough meal. Maybe some scrambled eggs would be better. So when she got back, she turned on the burner, cracked some eggs into a pan, and killed time by watching that ¡°Rick and Morty¡± video essay on her laptop. The narrator spoke really fast and loudly, which was kind of annoying. ¡°So what do Friedrich Nietzsche, Soren Kierkegaard, and Rick Sanchez all have in common? They each share a conviction in the innate meaninglessness of life, and of the universe¡¯s indifference towards humanity.¡± Suddenly, the fire alarm went off. A flame had erupted from the burner. She turned it off, but the fire kept burning and the alarm kept beeping. The narrator was also still babbling from her laptop. "Because Rick has traveled to so many different worlds and universes, he views other people as being utterly insignificant in the grand scheme of¨C" Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. She filled up a pot with water and poured it on the burner, which killed the flame. Then she paused the video. Aubree sat in the corner of the kitchen, rocking back and forth for the next twenty minutes. On her way to work, she ran into some construction on a three-way intersection. Half the road had been taken up by steamrollers and dump trucks. It smelled like hot tar. Construction dust choked the air. A guy with a hard-hat held up a stop sign so cars driving on the other side could pass through. After what felt like an hour, the guy turned the sign, motioning Aubree to pass through. But because it was a three-way intersection, and because of the weird placement of the cones, Aubree couldn¡¯t tell which road he wanted her to go down. The cars behind her honked. ¡°Go down that road!¡± The guy pointed in a vague direction. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, which one?¡± Aubree said. ¡°That one!¡± Aubree dug her fingers into the steering wheel. Her heart raced. Which one was he talking about? More honking from behind. The worker kept pointing and shouting, but for some reason his instructions couldn¡¯t get through her thick skull. Eventually, he approached her car. ¡°You have to go down that road! I¡¯m pointing and you¡¯re not listening to me!¡± ¡°I¡¯m trying to listen! I just don¡¯t¡ª¡± If she went down the wrong road, she could risk driving into oncoming traffic. She tapped the accelerator, but quickly hit the break. Now she was in the middle of the intersection. ¡°I¡¯m gonna say this one more time!¡± the worker said. ¡°Go down that road! Follow the cones!¡± It must have been so obvious to him and everyone else. And yet Aubree was too stupid to just get it. Fuck it. She floored it and drove down a random road. Luckily, the further she drove, the more assured she felt that she had chosen the right way. As she sped past the worker, Aubree thought she heard the worker say: ¡°Dumb bitch.¡± Work made her really angry today. A customer with a deadpan face wanted a plastic bag for his bananas. Aubree threw them in, but there was a hole in the bag. So she got another one. But this one had a hole too. The customer just stared at her and said nothing. Aubree walked around to the side of the register to grab a new batch of bags from the cubby, but they also all had holes in them. "I''m sorry sir, there doesn¡¯t seem to be¡ª" she began, but he interrupted her. "I can wait." Aubree sighed and searched through the cubby of a different register. They all had fucking holes in them. The customer was staring at his shoes now. Aubree told Mike about the bag situation, and he rolled his eyes before going to the back of the store to fetch some more bags. Luckily, these bags had no holes. She threw the bananas in the new bags, the man paid and left without thanking her. On the way home from work, Aubree passed the steel factory again. The woman wasn¡¯t there this time. Then she came home and saw several empty bottles of red wine on the kitchen counter. She heard her mom sobbing in the closet. Oh right. It was her and dad¡¯s anniversary. Aubree went upstairs to her room and lay in bed for about an hour, staring at the ceiling. She could still hear her mom sobbing through the floor. She put on headphones and listened to classical music, but she could still feel her mother sobbing. Aubree tried turning the music up, but no matter how loud it was, she could still feel her mother¡¯s sobbing deep in her bones. In a second she was on Google again. On her next day off, she returned to the library. There, Aubree saw Taylor leaning against the same window, drawing in her sketchbook again. It had been a cloudy day, so no sunbeams shone this time. Taylor offered her usual smile. ¡°You like books a lot, huh?¡± ¡°Uh, sure, yeah.¡± Aubree kept her right hand behind her back. ¡°I¡¯m guessing you¡¯re here for another show?¡± ¡°Yuperoo. Same time every Sunday.`` ¡°Gotcha.¡± Aubree¡¯s heart raced. Her voice trembled. ¡°Hey, I have a question. If that¡¯s okay.¡± Taylor¡¯s smile softened. ¡°Of course. What¡¯s up?¡± ¡°Um, well, I¡­¡± Hesitating, Aubree pulled her right arm out from behind her back, revealing a blue sock puppet with googly eyes and pink cotton nose. ¡°His name is Grover,¡± she said. ¡°...Oh.¡± Taylor nodded. She seemed either pleasantly surprised or creeped out. ¡°He¡¯s pretty cute.¡± ¡°I guess. You see. Your puppets. They look really good. I kinda wanted to¡ª¡± Aubree¡¯s throat began to clog with spit. She swallowed loudly. ¡°I kinda wanted to try it myself. And you¡¯re the expert, so maybe you could offer some advice.¡± ¡°I guess I could. Is this your first puppet?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Aubree said. ¡°It¡¯s shitty, right?¡± ¡°No, no.¡± Taylor got up and inspected the puppet. ¡°For a first try, it¡¯s pretty good. Although his eyes are on the sides of his head instead of the front of his face, so he can¡¯t look straight at the audience. Otherwise, pretty good.¡± ¡°Cool. Thanks.¡± Silence. "...So, yeah." Aubree''s heart pounded. Taylor¡¯s gaze had fallen to the floor. She definitely looked creeped out now. What else could Aubree possibly say? Apologize, she thought. Apologize for wasting her time. Tell her you weren''t sure why you even came in here, or why you made this ugly puppet. Doesn''t matter if it makes you look pathetic. Just end this unbearable silence. "I was wondering..." Random words spilled from her lips. "Can you show me how you do it? Make puppets, I mean?" Taylor¡¯s eyes lit up. Just a little, though. ¡°Sure. I¡¯d love to. I''ve got a show to do in an hour, but afterwards, when my mom picks me up, you can follow us back to our house and I can show you my workshop.¡± "Yes," Aubree said, louder than she meant. "Yes, yes. That''d totally be cool. Except, I¡¯m not very good at following people while driving. I lose people pretty quickly.¡± They were quiet for a bit. Why the hell did you say that? Aubree thought. You just made yourself look like a fucking idiot. ¡°You can also ride with us,¡± Taylor said at last. ¡°Okay. Cool. Thanks.¡± Aubree stuck around for the next couple hours. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall and questioned whether his life was worth living. Holy shit. After the show, Taylor¡¯s mom pulled up in her car outside the library, and they got in. Aubree sat in the back seat next to a patio chair. ¡°Sorry about the chair,¡± Taylor¡¯s mom said. ¡°I just got back from Lowe¡¯s because I needed something for my back porch.¡± ¡°That¡¯s okay. I understand,¡± Aubree said. ¡°It was on sale, too.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± Aubree nodded. ¡°That¡¯s pretty cool.¡± They drove through a neighborhood via a small one lane road. Soon, they passed a wrecked car. The front had been totally pulverized, with wires, pieces of metal and shards of glass all over the ground. The engine had burst into flames too. Police cars and an ambulance had parked behind it, and an approaching fire truck blared in the distance. Aubree wondered how a vehicle could¡¯ve gotten into that kind of accident on such a tiny one lane road. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°So Taylor, where did you meet Abigail?¡± her mom said. ¡°She was there when I did Little Red Riding Hood,¡± Taylor said. ¡°Look mom, Abigail made her own puppet.¡± ¡°Actually, my name is¡­¡± Aubree began. But instead she showed Grover to Taylor¡¯s mom. ¡°His name is Grover.¡± ¡°Oh, he¡¯s adorable!¡± Taylor¡¯s mom said. ¡°And he¡¯s your first puppet too?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± Aubree glanced at Taylor, who was drawing in her sketchbook. She smelled sharp and sweet, like a pine tree. ¡°Not as good as your puppets, Taylor. I¡¯m curious; how long have you been making them?¡± ¡°Since I was little.¡± Taylor¡¯s eyes remained on her sketchbook. ¡°I used to watch old episodes of Sesame Street and the Muppet Show on our VCR. My mom bought me a Kermit puppet when I was seven, and then I kept demanding more and more puppets, and eventually my mom was like: ¡®Taylor! We got you all the puppets in the world! Stop asking us for more!¡¯ And I was like: ¡®Alright, fine! I¡¯ll just start making my own puppets!¡¯ And I learned how to do it, and then I performed a few times at my school talent shows and at our church, and then I started studying puppetry arts at UConn, and now here I am, a twenty-one year old crazy puppet lady with no life outside of making and performing puppets. It¡¯s really sad. Right mom?¡± Both she and her mom laughed a little. ¡°No, no. It¡¯s really¡ª¡± Aubree slumped back into her seat. ¡°You¡¯re really passionate, Taylor.¡± ¡°Aw. Thank you. I just care alot about wiggling dolls around.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t know you could study puppetry as a major,¡± Aubree said. ¡°Can you make a living out of that?¡± Taylor shrugged. ¡°Maybe. Maybe not. Sesame Street¡¯s always an option. So is the Jim Henson Company. I could also keep doing local kid¡¯s shows until the day I die and barely make ends¡¯ meet. Doesn¡¯t really matter to me. As long as I keep working with puppets, and as long as kids and grown-ups resonate with what I¡¯m doing, everything¡¯s gonna be hunky-dory for me.¡± Aubree smiled a little. ¡°Cool. That¡¯s really cool.¡± Taylor and her mom lived at the end of a dead-end street. The house looked like the others surrounding it; two-stories with white wooden walls and a blue gable roof. That¡¯s suburbia for you. ¡°Can you help me get the chair out of the car?¡± Taylor¡¯s mom said when they parked. They spent the next ten minutes trying to pry the patio chair from the car door. Somehow, they got it out without breaking anything. ¡°Thanks for helping my mom out with that,¡± Taylor said afterwards. ¡°Wanna snack? I can make you a PB&J.¡± The thought of eating anything right now made Aubree¡¯s stomach hurt. ¡°Sure, that¡¯d be cool,¡± she said. So Taylor made her a sandwich and they went upstairs. Her room smelled just like her; pine cones and cinnamon and pumpkin spice. Was it her perfume? Incense sticks? Aubree nibbled on her sandwich as she contemplated this. Taylor opened the door to a walk-in closet, where dozens of puppets sat on several columns of wrap-around shelves. ¡°Behold! My life¡¯s work!¡± Animal and abstract characters surrounded them. They all sorta looked like Muppets. Others looked more realistic, like the red, serpent-like dragon that hogged the right-hand corner of the lower shelf. Its scales shimmered in the light of the closet. ¡°That¡¯s a cool-looking dragon,¡± Aubree said. ¡°I made that one for ¡®Georgic and Merlin.¡¯ Check it out.¡± Taylor put her hand into it and suddenly the dragon came to life. It slithered and opened its jaws and blinked. Taylor even made it hiss. ¡°Voil¨¤! The power of puppetry.¡± Aubree reached her hand towards it, but hesitated. ¡°No, no. Go ahead,¡± Taylor said. Aubree caresses its scales, which could have been made from real reptiles for all she knew. Her heart raced all the while; Taylor¡¯s hand was still inside the puppet. ¡°Took me two months to make this bad boy. In between classes, eating and sleeping, of course.¡± Taylor put it back on the shelf and took out a bag of supplies from a drawer. Felt, foam rubber, cardboard, scissors, a hot glue gun, and a needle and thread. Oh. Right. She was going to teach Aubree how to make a puppet. ¡°I¡¯ll show you how to make a basic head and mouth. It¡¯s pretty simple, actually.¡± And so she demonstrated. So you trace a flat outline of the puppet''s mouth onto a piece of cardboard, and then you cut out the shape and hot-glue, and then you trace the same shape onto a piece of foam rubber, and then you... Aubree''s eyes lingered around the room, looking for the incense sticks. Or the perfume bottles. Anything to explain Taylor''s autumnish aroma. Or maybe she just naturally smelled like that? Is that even possible? Or could the smell all be in Aubree''s head? No, it was so strong and distinct. It had to come from somewhere. "And now we''re gonna start sewing," Taylor said. "Right. Cool." She watched Taylor''s soft, brown hands thread a needle with no difficulty. Like a true artist. She had been cutting and sewing for probably over a decade. What a way to spend your childhood. Now Aubree tried to picture Taylor going to school; playing hopscotch at recess, studying for algebra tests, opening her locker, talking with friends at lunch, kicking a soccer ball around during gym class. Did she play sports after school? How good were her grades? How many friends did she have? Did they like puppets too? Did she ever feel lonely? Aubree thought about asking, but decided against it. Too personal. "Alright, there we go." Taylor stuffed her hand into the featureless puppet head. "That''s how you do it. Wanna give it a try?" "Uh, sure." Shit. Aubree hadn''t been paying attention this entire time. "Alright. So, what''s the first step again?" "You know that, silly. You take the paper pattern of the mouth, and trace it onto the cardboard." "Right, right." Her body felt hot. Try not to sweat again, she told herself. Aubree couldn''t get the thread through the needle. Her hands¡ª sweaty now, of course¡ª kept trembling. "Sorry, sorry," she repeated. "Don''t worry about it. You got this!" Aubree put it down and dried her hands on her shorts. "So did your friends like playing with puppets too?" she said. "At school, I mean." "Nah," Taylor said. "But they had their own stuff going on." "Right, right.¡± After a million tries, Aubree finally got it through. Taylor clapped and said: "Hurrah!" Aubree smiled. Taylor walked her through the entire process all over again. She didn''t seem annoyed. Then again, she could''ve been hiding it. But she also seemed genuinely supportive and happy whenever Aubree got through a step, offering applause every time. At last, after what must have been two hours, Aubree finished her puppet head. It looked really lopsided, as if it had suffered a stroke. "It''s beautiful!" Taylor said. "A little crooked. But I can tell you''ve got a knack for puppet making." Beautiful? Aubree held her puppet. She had made this. And Taylor thought it looked beautiful. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you." "My step-dad''s coming home soon. Wanna have dinner with us?" "Yeah, yeah. I''d love to." They ate chicken and peas. Taylor¡¯s step-dad was quiet, but nice. He told Aubree that he had been working at a car-repair shop since he was eighteen. Life-long passions run in the family, apparently. Now he owned his own shop, and earned a pretty hefty salary. Taylor¡¯s mom worked as an accountant; not exactly her passion, but it paid well, and she seemed to enjoy it just fine. ¡°What about your family?¡± she said. ¡°What do they do?¡± Aubree prodded her chicken with her fork. ¡°My mom cleans people¡¯s houses.¡± ¡°You just live with your mom?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± It got quiet for a moment. ¡°My dad¡¯s not part of my life anymore,¡± Aubree added. Everyone looked sorta uncomfortable. Maybe she shouldn¡¯t have said that. ¡°So Abigail, what do you do?¡± Taylor¡¯s dad asked. Aubree put down her fork. ¡°I work at¡­¡± All eyes were on her. She couldn¡¯t bear to meet them. ¡°I work at a grocery store.¡± ¡°That¡¯s good to hear. Job market¡¯s stuff these days, and stores are always looking for workers,¡± Taylor¡¯s dad said. ¡°Which store?¡± ¡°Fresh Farms Market,¡± Aubree murmured. ¡°Anyway, your daughter¡¯s really talented. She¡¯s gonna go far, for sure.¡± Taylor¡¯s parents smiled at their daughter. It was getting late. The family insisted that Aubree take home her unfinished PB&J and dinner left-overs in a ziploc bag. Taylor also lent her some foam rubber, sewing equipment, and glue. ¡°When you feel ready to make your own puppet,¡± Taylor said. Then they walked her to the front door, and bid her goodbye. ¡°Um, I¡­¡± Aubree¡¯s car was still at the library, so she¡¯d need a ride back. Should she mention it? ¡°Alright, guess I¡¯ll do some more packing,¡± Taylor said, already half-way upstairs. ¡°Wait,¡± Aubree said. Packing? For what? ¡°Can I¡­?¡± Everyone was staring at her again. Taylor was bouncing up and down, eager to retreat back to her room. ¡°What¡¯s up, Abigail?¡± ¡°Before I go¡ª¡± Aubree felt herself at the precipice again, under the moon, sunflowers at her feet, slow-dancing with Taylor. For some reason, it felt as if that world were about to burn up into ash. ¡°I wanted to ask you something.¡± ¡°Sure. What¡¯s up?¡± ¡°I was wondering if¡ª¡± Her heart pounded. Come on. Say it. Before it¡¯s too late. ¡°Do you wanna hang out next week? I dunno, get lunch or something?¡± Taylor walked up another step. ¡°Aw, sorry Abigail. Don¡¯t know if I can. I¡¯m moving back to Connecticut for school next week, and packing¡¯s gonna take up all my time. Do you use Discord? You can always message me if you have any puppetry questions.¡± Discord? Discord? ¡°No, I don¡¯t use Discord. You''re coming back, though. Right?¡± Taylor shook her head. ¡°No. I¡¯ll be graduating after this coming semester, and then after that, I¡¯m moving straight to Germany. I¡¯m doing an internship there.¡± Aubree''s knees almost gave out. A numbness spread throughout her body. ¡°How long will that take?¡± Taylor shrugged. ¡°Don¡¯t know. You never really know with puppetry. A couple years? A whole decade? It¡¯s up in the air. But that¡¯s okay; I like the uncertainty.¡± ¡°Oh. Okay. Well, bye, then.¡± Aubree started to walk away. ¡°Oh wait!¡± Taylor¡¯s mom gasped. ¡°I forgot, we drove you here.¡± ¡°That¡¯s okay. I¡¯m gonna walk.¡± ¡°But it¡¯ll take a whole hour to get back to the library.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine,¡± Aubree said. ¡°It¡¯s a nice night. I¡¯m gonna go now. See ya.¡± She kept going without turning back. There wasn¡¯t a star in the sky. A hot wind blew dead leaves across the street. Aubree passed a rusty tricycle buried in some overgrown weeds. Someone had drawn a swastika on the sidewalk. Her body felt numb. And heavy. And something wanted to burst from her chest. She knew what it was, and yet couldn¡¯t bear to see its face, or know its name. ¡°Um¡­ um¡­um¡­¡± She said over and over again. She found herself on the one-lane street again. The wrecked car was gone. So were the police cars and ambulances. As if it had never happened. Somehow Aubree found the library again. She got in her car and drove home. Her mom was watching TV. ¡°Where were you?¡± she said, still staring at the screen. ¡°Nowhere.¡± Aubree¡¯s face clenched. ¡°I¡¯m tired. Going to bed now.¡± ¡°Wait.¡± Her mom stumbled to her feet. Her eyes looked glazed¡ª an empty wine glass lay on a nearby table. ¡°I wanted to talk to you. You¡¯ve been really distant lately. You haven¡¯t gone back to college like you said you would years ago.¡± Aubree inched towards the stairs. ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk. I need to go to bed.¡± ¡°You¡¯re drifting away from me. We need to do something so we can rekindle what we lost.¡± ¡°I said I don¡¯t want to talk.¡± ¡°Aubree, sit down. We need to talk. Now.¡± Aubree grit her teeth. ¡°I¡¯ve got a better idea. I¡¯ll go upstairs and scroll through YouTube for five fucking hours like some fucking loser, and you can drink yourself into another fucking coma. How¡¯s that sound?¡± Her mom¡¯s eyes shimmered. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± Aubree said. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I didn¡¯t mean¡ª¡± She began creeping upstairs. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to¡ª¡± Her mom started crying. Aubree went into her room and closed the door. On her bed now. The room felt hot and clammy. Her chest was throbbing. She rolled to her side, breathing heavily. ¡°I don¡¯t use Discord,¡± she said. ¡°I don¡¯t use Discord. I don¡¯t use Discord. I don¡¯t use Discord. I don¡¯t use Discord. I don¡¯t use Discord. I don¡¯t¡ª¡± Her eyes blurred. ¡°I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t¡­ I don¡¯t¡­¡± She couldn¡¯t breathe now. Her mouth hung agape. That unnameable feeling clawed up from her chest. And then¡­ A grating scream tore from her throat. Tears rushed down her face, and she sobbed into her pillow. Chapter 4: The Beginning of the End It''s graduation. Hand in hand, we watch our fellow students approach the stage to receive their diplomas. High school has been the best years of my life. I''ve studied really hard. I''ve made a lot of friends. I got to go on field trips, play in the summer basketball league, perform in talent shows, go to prom. I did it all. But most importantly, I did it all with you. Soon we''ll be in college together. Studying puppetry. Making new memories. Finding job opportunities. And then we''ll get married and spend a long, beautiful life together. It''s going to be really exciting. Your name is announced. Up you go to get your diploma. You smile at the camera. You look so beautiful with your ivory hair combed down like that. Then you walk back down, next to me. And then¡­ The person beside me is called up next. Huh? Did they skip me? I stand up to object, but I don''t want to make a scene. But they skipped me. I don''t have my diploma. I turn to you, but you''re talking and laughing with the people around you. "Taylor." You don''t hear me. I hold your hand, but you pull it away. More and more people are called up to the stage. My name still hasn''t even been mentioned. I stand up, ready to complain. But everyone looks annoyed at me; they''re sighing and rolling their eyes. Hands clenched, and without thinking, I walk away from the stage, from my peers, from my future. I walk away from Taylor. I can''t stop crying now. It was all a lie. None of this actually happened. I can''t believe I fell for it. I''m such an idiot. ¡­ "Hey Aubree," Mike said when he clocked in. "How''s it going?" "I wanna fucking die." Mike laughed, but quickly stopped. "You okay?" ¡°It¡¯s a joke.¡± Her voice choked with tears. ¡°It¡¯s a joke, Mike.¡± ¡­ She had scanned a cart full of groceries, but the customer forgot her wallet. "Can you suspend the order so I can run out to my car?" She left, and, without thinking, Aubree started scanning the next order. It was another full cart of groceries. So many groceries. She was already halfway done when the first customer returned and said: "Hey, I told you I was only going to be a minute." "Oh jeez. I''m sorry." "It''s okay," the woman said. "Can you, I don''t know, suspend that order, open up mine and I''ll quickly pay for it?" "Sure, sure." "Wait a minute." The second customer looked at the list of items on the screen. "I didn''t buy any of that stuff." Aubree looked at the list on her screen. Oh shit. She hadn''t suspended the first order yet. "Great," the woman said. "Does that mean we have to ring up all my groceries again?" Aubree bit the inside of her lip until it bled. "Goddamnit." "That''s okay," the woman said. "That''s okay, I guess. I can wait." "Goddamnit!" Aubree shouted. She started clawing at her scalp. "God fucking damnit! I''m so fucking tired of this! It''s every fucking day!" The two customers glared at her. "Hey, don''t lose your marbles now," the second one said. Aubree slid to the floor. Every day. Every waking moment of her awful fucking life. And it would keep going and going, until the day she died. "Should we ask for a manager?" the second customer said. "Think she''s having some kind of panic attack." Tears and snot were streaming down her face. A few minutes later, Mike showed up. "Aubree, I''ve got this," he said, and took over. "Thanks." Her voice sounded so broken. "Wanna head into the break room for a bit?" "Sure." Instead, Aubree sat in the bathroom. Staring at her snot covered hands, she wondered why she had been crying in the first place. Because of Taylor, of course. But why? Who was Taylor to her? They''d barely known each other. They''d spoken about nothing but puppetry. They hadn''t even touched. It was stupid, then, to be grieving something that never even existed. And yet Aubree was still shaking, still heaving, as if she were dying. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. "You feeling better?" Mike said when she got back. Aubree opened her mouth. For the longest time, she didn''t know what to say. At last, she muttered: "I think I need to quit." "Huh?" "I need to quit, Mike. Now." "Oh." He looked at the floor. Then, after a while, he nodded. "Okay." The front doors slid open for her. Before she stepped out of Fresh Farms Market, she heard Mike say: "It¡¯s gonna be okay, Aubree." Her mom was home for some reason. And no wine glasses this time. "Hey," she said. Aubree couldn¡¯t look at her. "Hey." The clock ticked against the stillness. "You''re home early," her mom said. "So are you." "Guess we both owe each other an explanation." "I guess." They said nothing for a while. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for last night,¡± Aubree said. ¡°You should be. I¡¯m not going to drink myself into a coma like some alcoholic.¡± ¡°I know.¡± More silence. "I took off today. I wanted to do something," her mom said. "I visited your father." Aubree stumbled back. She went to go see him? Him? "You shouldn''t have," Aubree said. "Oh my god. Holy shit. What were you thinking?" Her mom stepped closer. "You¡¯ve been so lost lately. I''ve been thinking that maybe it''s because of our broken family. I want us to rekindle what we lost." "I don''t want to see him, mom." "Please, give him a chance," her mother started to cry. That was typical, whenever she drank. But Aubree had seldom seen her cry sober. "I talked to him. He''s softened. He''s so much kinder now. And he regrets everything. He needs you, Aubree." Aubree stomped upstairs. "I''m not going to see him. I hope he fucking rots." Then Aubree went to her room, slamming the door. She picked up the puppet-making stuff Taylor had lent her. Her hands moved on their own. She didn''t know what the fuck she was doing. Afterall, she''d only made two puppets in her life. But my hands are moving anyway. I need to make something. But what? The truth. I need to craft the truth. I''m tired of yearning for something that isn''t real, something that''s too good for me. I''m not like Taylor. I don''t live out dreams. I''m stuck here, in reality. Cold, ugly reality. I¡ª I hear glass shattering downstairs. Then banging. Mom shrieks. Putting my ear to the floorboards, I hear a man shouting. I can''t hear what he''s saying, but his voice sounds familiar. "How did you get here?" mom says. The man speaks, and though his words are muffled again, I recognize his voice now. It''s dad''s. He''s escaped. I need to do something. Quick. But I can''t move. Years worth of terror have paralyzed me. Suddenly, he starts beating her. Mom screams with every thrash. She''s fallen to the floor, I think, and he''s beating her even harder. Fists crack against her skull, one after the other. I''m crying now too, but I don''t make a sound. It stops. He laughs. Seconds later, I hear a gunshot. I jump, holding my breath, my face wet with tears. The front door of the house opens. Then dead silence. I wait for what feels like hours, my heart pounding. With every creak of the floorboards, I jump again, afraid that I''ll hear heavy footsteps ascending the stairs. But nothing happens. I force myself from the floor, and, hesitating for another hour or so, I open the door. The doorknob clicks as I turn it¡ª a death sentence, if he''s still here. But I hear nothing, so I tiptoe downstairs. I find mom on the living room floor. She¡¯s breathing slowly, and bleeding all over the carpet. I drag myself down with her and lay her head on my lap. Her eyes are wide open, glaring at me. Her lips dribble with blood. She parts them, as if she wants to say something, but, for a long time, she only gasps and snorts blood. Finally, she whispers: ¡°You should have come down sooner. You could have helped him.¡± Then she stops breathing. I stare at her until the sun goes down. It¡¯s been about two days. For some reason, I haven¡¯t called the police yet. Mom¡¯s body has begun to bloat. It smells too. I¡¯ve been ogling it this entire time. I¡¯m not sad or angry or whatever; if anything, I¡¯m just sorta neutral about this. But I can¡¯t keep my eyes away from her corpse. My stomach rumbles. I haven¡¯t eaten since before work two days ago. Maybe I¡¯ll keep starving myself until I die too. I hear my phone ring. It¡¯s Mike. ¡°Hey,¡± he says. He sounds tired. ¡°Hey,¡± I respond. We¡¯re silent for a while. ¡°How¡¯s it going?¡± he says. ¡°Fine.¡± ¡°That¡¯s good.¡± ¡°How¡¯s it going with you?¡± I say. Talking with him feels natural, as if we¡¯re just chatting. But the conversation quickly goes sour. ¡°I¡¯m not doing so great,¡± he says. ¡°The economy is bad. It tanked. Damn near everyone¡¯s lost their savings. Food prices are starting to skyrocket too, so everyone¡¯s buying stuff before they¡¯re not able to afford it.¡± His voice breaks. Is he crying? ¡°It¡¯s been hell over here, Aubree. The lines are so long; I haven¡¯t been able to leave in days. All the customers are screaming at me, as if this is all my fault. It¡¯s too much. This is the beginning of the end. The economy is about to collapse. And who knows what¡¯s gonna happen to me after this. I¡¯ll be homeless, probably. Or worse, I¡¯ll work in some shitty coal-mine for eighty hours a week just to make end¡¯s meet. That¡¯s it. I¡¯m gonna kill myself, Aubree. There¡¯s no other choice. I just wanted to tell you goodbye.¡± We¡¯re silent again. I stammer, trying to think of something, but nothing comes out. This is all so much to process. I can¡¯t even tell if he¡¯s serious. ¡°Alright. I don¡¯t wanna waste any more of your time,¡± he says. ¡°Goodbye, I guess.¡± There¡¯s a gunshot on the other end. I gasp, and now I¡¯m crying again. Chapter 5: The Abyss The following morning, the steel factory explodes. Apparently, the scorching weather had built up so much pressure in the engines that it all finally combusted. I see it from my window; a giant fireball erupting from the facility, as if a nuclear bomb has been dropped. The ground shakes, and all my windows shatter. The houses closer to the explosion disintegrate immediately. Those further away, like my house, just burst into flames. The fire quickly spreads. By the end of the day, it has engulfed ten square miles of neighborhoods and woodlands. The smoke blocks out the sun. It can be seen from space. I watch from my window. All of the neighbors¡¯ houses collapse from the fire. I can hear flames crackling, wood splitting, glass breaking. And screaming. So much screaming. From kids, mostly. A little girl, consumed by flames, sprints down the street while flailing her arms and shrieking like an animal. A man¡ª her dad, maybe¡ª stumbles after her. He looks really dazed. A hoard of refugees soon stampede in the same direction. There are dozens of them. Maybe even a hundred. Some of them are on fire, like the girl. By running, maybe they can escape this Hell on Earth. But it has become all-encompassing, all consuming. That¡¯s why I don¡¯t bother leaving the house. Most of them collapse mid-flight, either from the heat, or the smoke. A trail of bodies lay in the middle of the street, fodder for the inferno. The disaster dominates the news. Estimated death tolls are announced daily. Thirty. Two-hundred and twenty. Three-hundred and fifty. Five-hundred. Nine hundred and seventy-five. Firefighters scramble to fight back. I watch the planes dunk river-water over the flames. But the record drought has barely given them anything to work with. Eventually, the planes stop coming. It''s been almost a month. My house has been on fire the entire time. I don''t want to leave, but mom''s corpse has begun to make me nauseous. As I walk, I make sure not to touch the colossal walls of fire that surround me. Though I''m covered in sweat, I manage not to burn myself. I keep trying to search the horizon, but it''s nothing but fire and smoke and charred buildings and mountains of blackened corpses. I start to wonder if nothing of the world is left. But that''s not true. After several months, I manage to outwalk the fires. I stumble upon a refugee camp a couple miles from the beach. It''s in the parking lot of a Walmart. There are hundreds of blue tents, each harboring a different family of refugees. I sit down beside one of them, and see a baby lying on the ground, crying. Where are its parents? Soldiers carrying assault rifles are handing out water bottles and Pringle cans to the refugees. I wonder where they could have possibly secured those resources, and then I remember the Walmart. A soldier blows a whistle and commands everyone''s attention. Someone steps in front of the Walmart to make a speech. It''s the President. "How are y''all doing today?" he asks. A few people clap. "That''s good to hear. So here''s the situation. Every square mile of this great country has been consumed by the inferno. ?What''s worse, it''s gotten so hot that the whole ocean has dried up. Not a drop is left. It seems hopeless, but I have a plan." "What''s the plan, sir?" a guy at the front shouts. "I''ll tell ya the plan!" The President winks at him. "We''re all gonna go to the shore, and descend the pit that was once the ocean. Not only can we escape the fire, but there''s gonna be ample resources for all of us down there. We''re gonna be safe, we''re gonna be happy, and we''re gonna be cool. How''s that sound to y''all?" "That sounds good, !" says the guy in the audience. The baby next to me has just died. After a few hours, the soldiers start to lead everyone towards the shore. When we get there, we find a desert. The sand stretches on ahead of us for a couple miles, gradually angling down as it goes. But soon after that, the ground suddenly drops deep, deep, deep down, where the light cannot break. This abyss stretches all the way beyond the horizon. A silent despair weighs heavy on us. This is where the ocean once was. "Y''all ready!" the President says. A few more claps. We begin our trek, the thousand or so of us. We''ve been going for about ten minutes. The further we travel, the deeper we descend, and the darker it gets. I turn around and catch a final glimpse of the upper world we''re leaving behind. I spot smoke rising into the sky. Finally, we get to the spot where it suddenly drops down at a sharp angle. ¡°Alright folks,¡± says the President. ¡°This here is the continental slope. Climbing down this thing is gonna be worse than climbing down Mount Everest. But we¡¯re Americans, goddammit. We¡¯ve been through tough times before. This ain¡¯t nothin¡¯.¡± He takes one step forward, trips, and now he¡¯s tumbling down the fathomless abyss. We hear him scream for the next five minutes, his voice growing quieter and more echoey the further he rolls down. Finally, his screams vanish into the darkness. ¡°The President is dead,¡± the guy from the audience says. ¡°Indeed he is,¡± says the General. He¡¯s a bald, mustached man smoking a cigar. ¡°Guess that means we¡¯ve got ourselves a military government. Right men?¡± Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. The other soldiers shout victoriously. ¡°YEAAAAAAH!!!¡± A few refugees clap. We start to climb down. The soldiers are the last to go. My heart is pounding in my chest. The cliffside is at a near ninety-degree angle, and there are barely any protruding rocks to step on or grab onto. Half the time, my foot is searching for a platform to support my body; most of them are so small, they feel like they would break under my weight. But I¡¯ve been lucky so far. Other people haven¡¯t. It often happens faster than I can process; the snap of a breaking rock, followed by screaming that is quickly consumed by the deep void. Just like the President¡¯s. I hear yet another snap. A little boy is screaming now. This time, I happen to look down and see him falling to his death. He looks so small against that yawning abyss. Microscopic even. He¡¯s been falling for a long time. I catch one more glimpse of him; he¡¯s a dot, as tiny as a grain of sand. And now he¡¯s gone. ¡°I can¡¯t do this anymore!¡± a young woman next to me shrieks. I know what she means; my fingers have gotten too sweaty to support my body. I want to say something to comfort her, but no words come out. She gives me a desperate look. ¡°Please, I need you to tell my parents that I couldn¡¯t keep going. They¡¯re names are¡ª¡± Crack. She screams and plummets. My hands have gotten even sweatier. We climb down for hours and hours. The screams of hundreds of people accompany me during the descent. Every step down could very well be my last. My limbs are trembling. My muscles are throbbing in pain. And it¡¯s getting darker. Soon, I can¡¯t even see my own body, so searching for rocks to hang onto has grown even more dire. I shriek when it happens; my heel has touched solid ground. Putting my entire weight on the smooth surface, my legs give out and collapse onto the floor of the abyssal plain. I¡¯m crying and moaning and hyperventilating. My long suppressed panic attack has finally arrived. More people follow. I can hear their own shrieks as they¡¯re released from the relentless abuse of gravity. For a long time, we sit in pitch blackness, crying. ¡°Alright men,¡± the General says to his soldiers when they finally arrive. He seems unfazed by the expedition. ¡°We¡¯ve reached the abyssal plain. Flashlights on.¡± Dozens of blinding lights illuminate the darkness. My eyes are burning from the sudden glares. Everyone is wailing in pain. At this moment, I notice that, of the thousand or so of us who started this journey, less than a hundred are present here. I try not to think about the splattered corpses just beyond the light¡¯s reach. ¡°Onward!¡± the General says. We¡¯re trudging along at a slow pace. The few surviving children cry every so often. Their parents are probably dead. Although the soldiers are holding the flashlights, they¡¯re yards behind us. We can barely see what¡¯s ahead. The same questions linger in my mind. Where are we going? Where¡¯s the food? How are we going to survive down here? ¡°Alright, let¡¯s take a break,¡± the General says. We all sit, the soldiers in one circle, the rest of us in another. The General paces around both. ¡°Well, it seems the time has come.¡± He takes a puff from his cigar, and sighs. ¡°We have to eat the children.¡± ¡°What!¡± I bolt up and glare at him dead in the eyes. He doesn¡¯t look back at me. The soldiers and even a few refugees nod at his suggestion. ¡°Didn''t we pack at least some Pringles?¡± I say. The General shakes his head. ¡°Nah, they would have weighed us down.¡± ¡°The fucking Pringles?¡± ¡°Yup.¡± He approaches the children, whose shoulders tense. ¡°Children are basically Pringles, but with legs. They can climb down all by themselves, without anyone having to carry them.¡± More and more people start to nod. The idea is catching on. ¡°This is insane!¡± I¡¯m screaming now. I can¡¯t believe this is fucking happening. ¡°We should at least try to find something to eat! There could be dead fish all around us! We just need to look!¡± I¡¯m surrounded by glaring eyes. The General pouts at me. ¡°This is about more than just food, Aubree. Eating the children is important. It¡¯ll provide us with the structure we need to not only survive, but flourish.¡± Structure? Structure? ¡°What the fuck are you talking about?¡± Everyone turns away from me; clearly they¡¯ve had enough of my insubordination. ¡°Of course you wouldn¡¯t understand,¡± says the General. The adults start to gang up on the children. Their eyes are wide with a manic bloodlust. The children back away, whimpering. ¡°Stop it!¡± I scream. ¡°Stop it, stop it! You¡¯re insane! You¡¯re all¡­!¡± ¡­ I¡¯m sitting far away from them. I want to cry, but can¡¯t. My body and mind have numbed. The General approaches me. ¡°Hey,¡± he says, taking a bite out of a leg. ¡°You okay?¡± I don¡¯t answer for a long time. He¡¯s giving me sad eyes, as if he¡¯s genuinely concerned for my well-being. ¡°I think I¡¯m depressed,¡± I finally say. ¡°Me too,¡± he says. ¡°This world is fucked up. I wish it could be better, but¡ª¡± He takes another bite. His lips are splattered with blood. ¡°Yo, I have a question for you.¡± A question? What question could he possibly ask me? ¡°Do you know about the Ape?¡± he says. I raise an eyebrow, but say nothing. ¡°The Ape with Eight Billion Eyes,¡± says the General. ¡°It¡¯s an immortal being that¡¯s dwelled on the ocean floor for thousands of years. They say it¡¯s taller than the Empire State Building. That¡¯s a hell of a monkey, right?¡± He nudges me and laughs. ¡°What are you talking about?¡± I say. I ask not because I¡¯m curious, but because his answer might be an insight to the current mental state of the group. Know thy enemy. ¡°The Ape is the real reason why we¡¯re down here,¡± he says. ¡°We¡¯re gonna look for it. If you ask anyone else here about it, they¡¯ll tell you that they don¡¯t know what you¡¯re talking about. But they do know. And they¡¯re all eager to see it. And here¡¯s the real kicker...¡± He grins, exposing his blood-stained teeth. ¡°We all yearn to be devoured by it.¡± The General stands up and walks back to the crowd. Eventually, they turn the flashlights off. Bed time. Even though it¡¯s pitch black, I can¡¯t sleep. Probably because of everything that¡¯s happened today; the inferno, the descent into the abyss, the cannibalizing of the children. It¡¯s too much for my brain to process. But I also can¡¯t shake the feeling that something is watching me. Chapter 6: The Ape with Eight Billion Eyes I must have dozed off. When I wake up, I see a few flashlights sprawled over the ground, their lights on. "Hello?" I mutter. Dead silence. I pick up a flashlight and light up my surroundings. Everyone is gone. My heart begins to race. "Hello?" This time, I whisper. Even though I''m alone, I still feel like something is watching me. I tip-toe forward. Or, at least I think it''s forward. I''ve lost all sense of direction; everything is just darkness now. It''s gotten cold, too. Just below freezing, I think. I can see my breath against my ever dimming light. For the first time in what feels like months, I think about Taylor. But I shouldn''t. Taylor isn''t here. She never was. Only darkness and¡­ ¡­Breathing. Low, guttural breathing that''s as all permeating as the darkness. I can feel it tingle my spine, and crawl across my skin, like some icy gust. My feet are glued to one spot. I''m utterly paralyzed. Whatever this thing is, its monolithic aura has already begun to devour me. The flashlight suddenly dies. Now I''m alone with the Ape. Yes, it is the Ape. I don''t need logic to deduce that. Hell, logic died the moment I stepped foot on the abyssal plain. No, it died long before that, so long that I can''t even comprehend it. It died before I was born, before humanity first discovered fire, even before the stars formed in the cosmos. It is an ancient corpse. The Ape is coming now. Its footsteps shift the earth''s tectonic plates. The air molecules quiver with its movements. I''m so scared, my knees are locked in place, so I can''t even fall to the ground. I''ll die standing up. The ape¡¯s breaths burn my face. It says something, but I don''t understand it. For a split second, my flashlight flickers back on, and I catch a glimpse of the monster''s face. White skin, two sets of car-sized fangs, and countless red eyes. Billions of them, like distant stars in the sky, all glaring down at my insignificant being. Though I see its face for only a second, the madness has already infected me. My brain has been scrambled. The neurons that filter the physical universe into my consciousness are being untied, one by one. My mind is stretched so far across the universe that everything is a shapeless, meaningless blur. All of history, from the big bang to the heat death of the universe, is happening at once. People, flowers, rocks, atoms, photons, gravity, dimensional plains, abstract concepts and even oblivion itself are all indistinguishable from each other. I¡¯ve become everything and nothing. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. I want to slam on the break. Make it stop. Oh God, make it stop. But soon even my yearning for oblivion is yet another meaningless thing that I can¡¯t comprehend. And yet in the incognizable kaleidoscope of my zombie sentience, I can still hear it; the demonic cackling of the Ape with Eight Billion Eyes. It¡¯s coming for us. It¡¯s coming for us. It¡¯s coming for us. It¡¯s coming for us. It¡¯s coming for us. It¡¯s coming for us. It¡¯s coming for us. It¡¯s coming for us. It¡¯s coming for¡ª ¡­ ¡°Look at me, sweetie.¡± Aubree rocked back and forth in the corner of her room. It was dark, except for the hallway light that peeked through the door crevice. The puppet was no longer on her hand. Her mother must have taken it off. ¡°Are you okay, sweetie?¡± ¡°No,¡± Aubree said. Her mother held her. ¡°Do you know where you are?¡± She must have thought her daughter had gone insane. ¡°Yeah,¡± Aubree said. ¡°At the house. In my room.¡± ¡°Do you know how long you¡¯ve locked yourself in your room?¡± That, Aubree didn¡¯t know. ¡°Four days,¡± her mother said. ¡°I¡¯ve been so worried about you. Your coworkers are worried about you. Do you need help?¡± Aubree nodded. ¡°Yeah.¡± Aubree went back to work a couple days later. Of course Mike vouched for her. Soon, she was able to start paying for therapy sessions. She told her therapist about her difficulty following directions and paying attention. Basic stuff. She considered telling her about Taylor, and everything else. But¡­ After a few sessions, her therapist got her connected with a psychiatrist, who was able to get her hooked up with some medication for her ADHD. They started her off with small doses, and after a year she was regularly taking three pills a day. She made very few mistakes after that. Customers and coworkers alike were regularly satisfied with her performance. Aubree continued to work at Fresh Farms Market for another four years, until the company went bankrupt. After that, she worked at Giant until the very end. And every day until then, she kept the puppet she had made on the top shelf of her closet. And every night, she felt its eight-billion eyes burrow into her soul.