I make the sign of the cross as I step over each person. I’m not a religious person. I haven’t been to church since Christmas, but right now, I need something, a miracle, faith, just something to believe in.
The hallway angles to the right and opens into a jewelry store, lined with glass showcases of glittering gems. Corpses slump over the counters as if they died where they stood, without warning.
Exiting the front of the store, I make a hard left, my muscles tightening and straining. I push forward, not wanting to slow down. How do I keep him from knowing where I am and getting in my head?
No thoughts. I can’t think.
I start singing a song in my head as I jog down the street. Sweat runs down the sides of my face and stings as it drips off my lashes into my eyes. I head for a building across the street that looks like a bookstore and stumble through the doorway.
Corpses reading books. Bodies crumpled where they stood in line waiting to purchase their paperbacks and other novelty items. One stiff still has her coffee clutched in her hands.
I’m still singing loudly in my head.
Heading to the back loading area, I push open the emergency exit and run outside to the next street. I’m so exhausted I could cry. As a matter of fact, I am crying. Tears streak down my cheeks and fall to my chest, until the front of my shirt is soaked.
Crossing a few more avenues, I pause for a second to try and catch my breath. My heart is hammering in my chest and my throat smarts with pain. I lean my back against a tree and look around to survey the area. All the while singing the same thoughtless song in my head.
The city does look different. There are no more telephone poles or wires hanging across buildings and there seems to be a traffic light on every corner. I spin around and realize I’m a few blocks away from where my family—
I sing the song in my head louder.
Taking a deep breath, I continue running and don’t stop until I see the familiar apartment building and stagger, panting and sweating, through the front lobby. I head for the stairs and stumble up four flights. I take a breather on the last step, fearing my lungs are about to collapse.
Tears make my vision hazy, but I have to keep moving. Pulling myself up off the floor, I walk down the hallway, stepping gingerly to avoid falling over my numb limbs.
The door to my family’s apartment is slightly ajar. With a shaky hand, I push it slowly open and walk through. It smells like burnt toast.
The front room is simply furnished, just a recliner and an extremely thin-screened television. A pair of slippers sit next to the chair. There’s nothing here that looks familiar. I guess if this is 2056, my family would no longer live here.
The kitchen hosts a small table with one chair, a bowl of rotten fruit sits in the center. My mother always kept a bowl of fresh fruit on our table, just like that. She always wanted us to pick healthy snacks over junk food. It would make Claire cry when she saw it. Until I secretly made a stockpile of chocolate in my desk drawer for after she ate the fruit.
The largest bedroom has the most furniture—a full-sized hospital bed, layered with stained blankets and dirty sheets. A dresser is piled high with books and magazines and clothes. On the opposite side of the room sits a large wooden desk with a small digitized cube of photographs moving in a slideshow on one of its shelves.
I stand frozen, watching pictures of my life flash before my eyes. Claire and me as children running in Central Park. A Christmas morning when we were teenagers and Claire’s enormous smile when she received her first American Girl doll. Me and Claire graduating high school. I remember taking all these pictures. Could this be something pulled from my memories? Something Pious is using to try to make me believe this is all real.
Another image flips over and it’s me, graduating from college. I’m a little older and tired, standing in front of the open doors of an auditorium with Claire smiling wide next to me.
I haven’t graduated yet. I still have an entire year to go.
The next picture is me graduating, at an older age than the one before. I must have received my master’s degree or maybe my PhD. Thatiswhat I was planning, depending on the cost. I secretly dreamed of taking a year off to travel, but never really thought I’d be able to, with having to help out with dad and Claire.
I wonder if I ever went.
A picture flips and slides into place of Claire in a hospital bed and me sitting next to her. She doesn’t look well, she’s too thin and pale. We must be in our thirties. I’ve gained weight and I look like shit.
Does Claire get sick?
The following picture is one of me and my mother sitting in front of a Christmas tree. My mother is in a wheelchair with a full head of gray hair. She looks off to the side, not interested in smiling for the camera. My expression isn’t any better. My lips are in a tight straight line, pinched up only in the middle, like I’m sucking on something sour.
Claire and my father aren’t there.
What does that mean?
Why aren’t pictures of me with anyone else rotating around on that thing? Do I never have children, or get married? Does my sister die? Where’s my father? Do I end up living in this God-awful apartment alone just to die from some stupid trumped-up virus?
I rummage through all the drawers in the desk. I find mine and Claire’s birth certificates. My diplomas. Bank account statements. Claire’s death certificate. Monthly invoices for an assisted-living facility for my parents that is astronomical.
Spoiler alert: I die alone, poor, and deeply in debt.
