Sixteen Small Deaths (20 page)

#

Eyes open and view an empty bed and I can hear Chelsea attempting to make breakfast in the kitchen. I yawn and catch the cold breeze from outside. Even with the few doors and windows of the house locked and barricaded, a thin rush of air always manages to seep in through unseen cracks. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stare through the sliding doors of the bedroom.

Only a few months ago I got used to the company of the moon and there’s a small part of me that feeds off its pallid glow. Sometimes I believe I don’t miss the beaming rays of sunshine anymore.

Chelsea leans into the room, tight black t-shirt and the jeans she’s worn everyday for the past two weeks. “Breakfast is on the table if you want anything,” she says.

I shake my head and continue staring at the darkness of the fresh morning sky. “I’m not hungry.”

She sighs and blows hair out of her face, pouting her lips. “You have to eat something. It’s not going to make the situation any better if you turn against your own body. You need strength. Please, eat something, even if it’s small.”

“Okay.” I stand up and take slow steps out of the bedroom and into the hallway. I can remember the framed pictures that once graced these walls, snapshots into the life of another family. After the earthquakes, we threw them in the trash, the ghosts of the house long forgotten. The four-second walk into the kitchen seems more like time in a coffin than anything else.

A few pieces of burnt toast adorn a plate of watery eggs. I sit
and smile at Chelsea. She was never a good cook but I know deep down inside that she’s been trying her best for the past few months. I shove a forkful of yellow into my mouth and chew. Chelsea sips juice out of a paper cup and asks me if I want any. I nod and she pours the last of a bottle of apple juice into her cup and slides it next to my plate. Before I notice, she’s on my lap with her arms wrapped around my neck. Her tears feel like fire to my aching skin and I push her off of my torso.

She does this at least once a day and I can never blame her.

“I want to leave,” she says in between deep breaths. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

I force her arms to the side and gaze at a monolithic beauty, bleeding mascara over wet cheeks. “I don’t want to be here either. But I’d rather be here spending my days with you than living death two hundred miles away. Home is gone.”

My finger gently presses into the skin between her breasts, black fabric embracing me. “
This
is home now.”

I can tell her smile is forced and she walks away. I finish my breakfast and place the soiled plate into the sink with the other dishes that neither of us has touched in days. Four or five months ago I would have yelled at Chelsea for leaving a mess in the kitchen but now I’m just grateful that we’re both alive and well. Sometimes she cries for her mother and father, other days it’s for her sister and the handful of friends that she kept close to her heart.

I resist the urge to walk into the bedroom to comfort her and instead sit quietly in the living room, watching the anathema of blue snow fall from the sky and coat the ruins of the world outside the house.

#

Chelsea and I were engaged before the events happened. We wanted a December wedding and the quiet voices in our hearts
begged us to hold true to the date. The winter air held a crisp quality and I found a charcoal grey blazer buried deep in the bedroom closet. Chelsea’s hair was parted in the middle, rising roots of black fighting an unnatural swoop of blonde. She braved the cold and wore a white tank top and green-tinted jeans.

She looked at me with carcinogen eyes and mascara the color of autumn chrysanthemums. She said three words and I kissed her, standing and swaying under dead tree limbs while descending ash danced in our hair and backs. For the first time in weeks a small sliver of pink light penetrated through the obsidian of the afternoon sky. We both smiled at this small marvel in our new world, hoping that it was a sign of hope, a sign of better days.

We sat against the lone rock in the remains of the garden and held each other until the snow started to drift against the comfort of our skin, bits of vanilla radiating with only a tinge of blue. I planted my elbow in the dark crevasse below the middle of the rock and Chelsea laid her head against my chest. She perked up at the sight of two rabbits hopping through the dead trees of the surrounding forest, signs of life after nature’s funeral.

We remained perfectly still and watched the animals sniff around the ground, little paws barely imprinting the ash and snow. The smaller of the two had fur as white as virgin clouds and when it stood up I could see a small grey spot of fur the shape of a distorted heart on its chest. Its mate, black fur and eyes like two drops of gelled seawater, nudged its nose against our feet before running back into the remains of the forest.

The white rabbit followed suit and before long Chelsea and I had fallen asleep, each holding what was left of the world in our tired hearts.

#

Fuzzy vision and I hear Chelsea’s voice. She’s sitting next to me
and I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep in the living room. She stares straight ahead, as if entranced with the night sky. A splinter of moonlight splits her face diagonally. My hand finds its way to her lap and her fingers clasp onto mine, squeezing like she hasn’t seen me in months. Her head tilts, lips gently pressing against mine. She tastes like fresh honeydew. We kiss for what feels like hours, our bodies warm with desire.

“We should make dinner,” she says. “Are you hungry?”

I nod and place my lips on her head, the scent of old shampoo and daisies greeting my nostrils with eager flare. She stands up and smiles. “You stay here and relax. I’ll start dinner.”

I lift my legs to the other side of the couch and sigh. It’s only when I catch the outline of movement against darkness that I run into the kitchen and grab Chelsea by the hand. She doesn’t have to say a word, just runs to the bedroom and slams the door shut. We’ve been prepared for moments like these.

“What’s out there?” Her question is muffled by two inches of pine. I can hear voices outside of the walls, bodies scratching the exterior of the house. I reach into the hallway closet and pull one of the three guns resting on the top shelf. The metal is cold and all I can picture is my father teaching me how to duck hunt when I was a boy.

I rest my head against the bedroom door. “Stay in there and don’t move. I’m going to check out the front of the house.”

Hands and forehead drip with sweat as I peek out the peephole of the front door. I’m greeted with nothing but the violent swaying of vapid tree limbs and an everlasting gaze into the black of night. Silence breaks and my eyes burn with a quick flash of white light, fingers losing their grip on the gun. I fall to the ground and hear the banging against the door, each vivid thump pounding my spine. I close my eyes and remember that if whoever’s outside gets to me, they’ll get to Chelsea.

An ounce of strength finds its way into my hands and I’m pushing the door, holding it closed. The locks jingle with fright.
I hear a long, winding screech and the force outside stops. I wait at least two full minutes with my heart beating as fast as a thousand horses before I stand up. My back slides against the door on the way up and part of me is surprised that it’s still upright. Chelsea walks slowly into the hallway and hugs me. I hold onto to her with one arm and keep the gun raised in the air with the other. “What was it?”

I shake my head and turn an eye to the peephole. A swash of black on the other side, an array of golden lights flickering in the sky. I push Chelsea away from the door and motion for her to leave the hallway. She takes tiny steps backwards until I can only see white-painted fingernails gripping the edge of the living room entrance. The locks are eased open. I’m careful to keep my fingers wrapped around the handle of the gun. The knob turns and a frosty chill sneaks into the house, the scent of sugar and ice.

I stand on the doorway, gun poised and ready for an attack. I turn my back to the night and see two streaks painted on the front door, a silver vein entwined with a splash of red in the shape of a distorted ‘V.’

The echoes of comfort fly away as I rush into the house and slam the door behind me.

#

The wool blanket wrapped around her, Chelsea sits silently on the couch in front of the living room window. “What if they come back? What if they break in here? What do we do?”

I’ve been holding the gun for almost two hours and I’m so tired that I fear my fingers are interwoven with the aged metal. The truth is that I don’t know what to do if someone breaks into the house. “I don’t know what to do,” I say. “It was just a threat, Chelsea.”

She throws the blanket to the floor, fuzzy red clashing with the vomit-colored carpet. She starts shouting and after a few
minutes I can only close my eyes as a response. When she calms down, she picks up the blanket and tosses it on the couch. She’s wearing tight grey sweatpants that make her legs look like knives. Before she can leave the room I pull her into me so close that she’s lifted off the ground. One deep kiss and her hands are tugging at the back of my head, slender fingers pulling brown hair.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” I say. “I love you. I would have rather died four months ago than know there’d be a day I’d have to live without you.”

The subtle twinkle in the cavernous green of her eyes is all I need right now. She holds my hand, palms sticking together with a millimeter of sweat. Chelsea’s head eases into my chest and her eyelids open and close to the rhythm of my breaths.

“Whoever they are,” I say, “will never get past me. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.”

She presses her lips against my cheek and leaves the room. “You can’t sit there all night. You need some sleep.”

“I know. I’m going to sit up for a little while.”

Her footsteps into the kitchen are soft murmurs against the pink lightning storm raging outside. Cherry slices of light break through the darkness, each one shining long enough to see the outlines of every remaining star adorning the night sky. If I close my eyes the peculiar drone beyond the living room window will fill my head. Each note is like code, informing who’s left in the world that the earth is evolving into something different. I can only imagine what lies beyond the balcony. And I can only imagine who left their markings on our front door. We haven’t seen signs of life since the trek into the mountains nearly four months ago.

I sit up and walk through the kitchen. I haven’t eaten all day and have no desire to do so now. Chelsea and I are sick of eating canned food three times a day but we both know that luck was on our side when we found a stockpile of food and bottled water
in the cabinets and cupboard.

A supple ginger glow spills out of the bedroom. It makes my shadow look like a hunchback, my head and arms bent forward. My fingers slide against the wall, squishy steps on the bedroom carpet as I view the striking silhouette of Chelsea’s body. She squeaks out a small “hello” with a seductive smile. She was blessed with the curves of a tattooed angel and a voice that could make a man cry.

“Come to bed,” she says.

Pretty soon my clothes are on the floor and I forget that the world has ended.

#

I wake up alone in bed, the leftover scent of sex and lavender floating above my bare body. Chelsea was never one for sleeping in. When we first lived together, she’d wake up much earlier than me and go out for a run or make breakfast. I guess she’s still in the habit even though night has eroded most of the light of every cold morning.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and put on jeans and a t-shirt. My hoodie slouches over my shoulder as I head into the kitchen and see Chelsea sitting silently at the kitchen table, reading a newspaper. She looks up and a tiny smile curls at the bottom of her face, a sliver of delight amidst light freckles. Her head bows back to the newspaper and after a minute I realize that I haven’t watched the news on television or read a magazine or newspaper since the sun’s rays first carved through comet dust.

Chelsea flips a page and lifts her head to me, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. I run fingers alongside parts of her matted curls, crunching the hardened hair from day-old hairspray. She looks as beautiful as she did the night before.

I lean in and see that she’s reading
The Great Falls Tribune
from March 6, 2015. She can see the inquisitive look on my face,
probably the way my eyebrows flare against the pale skin of my forehead. “I haven’t read anything since we got here,” she says. “I just want to feel like the world is alive and breathing again.” She raises the newspaper, her eyes scanning words that mean nothing now.

I nod and sit next to her, easing into the pine chair and taking a deep breath. My body wants breakfast but my mind needs fresh air. “I’m going to take a quick walk outside. Do you want to come?”

“Do you think it’s safe?” She frowns.

“I think we’ll be okay.”

She folds the newspaper and zips up her sweatshirt. I can tell she’s not wearing a bra; nipples poke through two thin layers of cloth. She reaches out for my hand and I hold onto it as we walk out of the kitchen and through the front door. The markings on the door behind us, neither of us mention their creation or what they mean. We follow the small trail around the house leading up to the edge of the property, the balcony just above us. Only a small amount of light provides guidance to the end of the trail. We look over the side, cerulean mist circling above the rocks, the last breaths of a dissolving stream. Chelsea squeezes my arm, her slender fingers tightening around muscle and fabric. “We’ll go inside in a few minutes,” I tell her.

I can read fear in the words lost somewhere between her eyes, unease flowing in her weary blood. A sniff of air and I know that the world doesn’t smell the same without leaves and trees and animals. I used to work in the city and every day cursed the bustle of metro life. As I take a few steps to the edge of the rocks, I realize that I’d give my own soul to be lying in the apartment bed with Chelsea, a concert of blaring traffic on the streets outside.