by Rue Sparks
“I feel warm for once.”
Ivory smiles against her neck.
“You better get used to it.”
“Mudder.”
Lena and Ana meet each other’s gazes through the streaked and scratched bullet-proof glass. Lena hasn’t visited her in years, the guilt a leaden weight that always turned tomorrow into next week, next week into next month, next month into never.
Lena’s mother’s black hair is chopped short into uneven spikes, eyes ringed with dark circles and face lined with premature wrinkles. Despite her haggard appearance and horrified expression, Lena can see pinpricks of joy in her eyes at seeing her.
“Lena, my dochder, what happened to your face?” she asks, voice barely a whisper. She inhales suddenly, breathes the next words into the phone, “Surely, you didn’t—”
“I won’t hide anymore, Mudder.” Lena cuts her off, unwilling to listen to a chastisement or judgment. She and Ivory have come to an agreement after long conversations, and she won’t entertain her mother’s fear.
“That wasn’t what I came to talk to you about, though,” Lena says. “I found someone.”
There’s a pause where Lena can’t quite parse her mother’s stoic expression. Is she angry?
“Are they … does he … does she?” Lena breathes.
“She knows about the fire,” she says.
“Does she now?” There’s a hint of a smile on her mother’s face despite the terror hiding thinly veiled in her eyes.
“She doesn’t blame you,” and more quietly, “or me.”
Her mother nods. “Good.”
“She wants to come with me,” Lena says, hoping her mother can infer from her words what that means, how far Ivory is willing to go for her.
“Come with? Where?”
“On a trip. It may take a while. Don’t worry, we’ll be safe. I just … thought you should know.”
There, Lena thinks, as her mother’s gaze finally softens, cracked and thin lips relaxing into a smile. Now she understands.
“She loves you.”
I’ll never understand why, Lena thinks, though inside the joy she feels still lingers like warmth to her fingertips that previously only ever felt iciness of death.
“All of me. I don’t have to be cold anymore, Mudder.”
“That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
Lena knows she’s telling the truth.
Later, after she’s walked to her car, fastened her seatbelt, turned on the ignition and is preparing to leave to go home to Ivory, to where they’re packing their life up for an indefinite amount of time for a literal witch hunt, Lena remembers the words her mother had said all those years ago. Some people hate those who love.
She drives along the cracked and abandoned country roads and thinks of Eliza, of Grossmudder, of Mudder, and of the one who is waiting patiently for her. Ivory.
The cold can pierce to your bones. But some warmth won’t be stopped.
Some fires, once started, won’t be put out.
11
Weather the Storm
By the time it is Elijah’s turn to peel off his headphones and unpin his nametag for lunch, the rain falls from the end of his nose in a steady drip, and his clothes cling to him like a second skin. The seat of his desk chair squelches when he rolls it back to stand, the wet wheels squeaking over the soggy carpet.
The cloud accumulated over his head shortly after he’d arrived at the office, sometime between when he’d put his lunch into the overstuffed refrigerator and after he’d snuck away from a one-sided conversation with two overly enthusiastic interns. It was small at first, cotton candy in texture and white as snow. He’d spotted it in the reflection of his still-dark computer screen but shrugged off its presence as no harm done.
It is after his second phone call but before Deborah finally snuck into her cubicle almost an hour late that the first drops start to fall. He feels it like pinpricks along his uncovered arms and face and barely-there touches over his shirt and pants. It distracts him enough that he misquotes a price to a customer and has to quickly backtrack before he digs himself into a hole he can’t dig out of.
He hopes his manager doesn’t catch wind of it.
That thought is like poking a dragon though, because the rain kicks up and the air around him starts to move like a current — as if he were at the center of his own little hurricane. His bangs flutter in the slight wind, the rain soaking through his clothes within a few minutes. When the rain starts to drip on his paperwork, he pushes everything to the back of his desk, hoping to save what he can. He sneaks a peek at the cubicles around him, but no one pays him any mind.
Now it is lunchtime, and Elijah’s teeth are starting to chatter from the air-conditioning cooling his soaked clothes and skin. He leaves damp footprints on the thin carpet in his wake on his way to the restroom. His only saving grace is that he’s yet to draw attention to his unfortunate circumstances. There have been no questions or reprimands, for which he silently thanks whatever gods he can think of. Admittedly, he can’t think of many. He idly wonders if that is how he got into his current predicament.
Once in front of the restroom mirror, he groans at the severity of his situation. The cotton candy cloud has become a dark, woolen, swirling mass of grays and blacks. Lightning strikes along his hairline, highlighting the edges of the clouds, and sending some of his hair to stand on its ends.
The rain is near torrent level now, his bangs sticking into his face. His shirt is soaked through, outlining his shoulders, chest, and gut, his blue tie near black in its water-logged state. He can feel the water dripping down his face, his arms, his legs into a puddle on the sink and onto the tile floor.
Elijah is at a loss. He can’t recall how to handle the appearance of your own personal rain cloud, and he isn’t sure what his next steps should be. Should he call off? Go home and call the doctor? Is it a physical illness or mental? Is it an illness at all, or divine intervention?
With shoulders lowered and face in a sullen droop, he pulls down several wads of paper towels, trying unsuccessfully to dry off his hands and his arms. They quickly become soaked again, and he gives it up as a lost cause.
When he gets back to his chair, to his water-logged seat and damp desk with puddles under the mouse and keyboard, he is hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion. He sits hard into the seat, sending water squelching in sudden drips to the floor, and the noise is loud in the near-silent room, the click-clack of keyboard keys the only other sound.
“Elijah?” He jumps and turns, feeling relieved to find his co-worker, Jamie at the entrance to his cubicle. They’d always gotten along, acquaintances if not nearly friends. “You doing okay?”
The question catches him off-guard, but his response is immediate. “Of course. I’m fine.” Even as he says it, he knows it is the wrong answer. Her raised eyebrow echoes his feelings, so he sighs and turns his creaking chair to fully face her.
“To be honest, I’m struggling. Have been for a while. I think it’s getting to me today.” As he says it, he feels something lift. The rain starts to stutter, the lightning and thunder near his ears quieting.
“Maybe we can grab dinner after work?” she says, leaning against the wall of his cubicle and giving him a soft smile. “I got some time, and I’ve always meant to ask. You’re the best salesman we have, so I’ve always been kind of intimidated. But you’ve seemed down lately. I’ve been worried.” The way she tilts her head, her eyes earnest with brow furrowed, makes the rain turn to a drip.
“I’d like that,” he says, and he means it. The rain stops. “And really, I admire your attention to detail. You’re so organized; I’ve never been able to keep things straight like you do. Maybe we can help each other too.”
She nods, and her smile widens. It is slightly crooked, one cheek raised more than the other. He never noticed before, but he doesn’t know how. “We can do that, but not tonight. Tonight, let’s focus on what’s got you down.”
With that, he didn’t have to look to know
the cloud has dissipated like a waking dream.
Hours later, his desk dry and his seat left with only a few damp spots, he wonders at rain clouds. Maybe the answer to rainy days is knowing that someone else will stand with you in one.
12
Ghost in the Machine
She was what I needed when I needed it. Maybe that’s why I didn’t question it.
“Your brain is lying too,” comes the message. And then a few seconds later: “Depression lies.”
“It doesn’t feel like a lie,” is my earnest reply.
“Well, it is.” Li always seems so certain about these things, and I hold onto it like a lifeline. Maybe if she believes it for both of us, it will come to pass. Maybe I can believe it too.
It is past three in the morning, and I am supposed to wake up in four hours for class. But I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, buried beneath the thoughts that tell me it was pointless to even attend class, that I was too stupid for college anyway, that I’d never amount to anything.
Then, there is Li.
“I wish I could reach through this screen and give you a hug,” she replies. I can feel warmth build in my chest. “You are an amazing person, deserving of love, capable of success, and I hope one day you’ll see the person I see in you.”
I wonder if, knowing what I know now, if I would have been so honest. Would I have interacted with her at all?
I look up from my studying, and my heart skips a beat. Midnight — Li would be on, and I have news to share.
She beats me to it.
“How did the exam go?! Don’t keep me waiting. The suspense is killing me!!!” The message waits for me with far too many exclamation points and a GIF of Kermit chewing at his fingers.
“I aced it,” I reply, a smile on my face, even though I know she can’t see it.
“I knew you would. No doubt about it!” There’s a part of me that bursts with happiness at her faith in me, even though I can’t have that faith in myself.
“Then why the suspense lol.”
“Gotta keep you entertained don’t I?”
All castles eventually crumble, and when mine did, I was buried beneath it.
“To whoever has been using this account,” Li’s post started, and my blood freezes. What does that mean?
“I can’t believe anyone would do such a thing. How can you possibly be so cruel? I’m shutting this account down as soon as I figure out who has been posting and messaging under it. If anyone has any insights on who has been posing as Li let me know.”
There are hundreds of shares and likes. It is posted around ten in the morning; Li is never on during the day. I don’t understand what is going on, so I click on the comments.
Fortunately, I’m not the only one confused. Li has been posting updates regularly for years without fail. I browse through comments, some honest concern and others trolls looking for a fight, until one stops my scrolling. My heart drops.
It is a reply from Li’s account, only it isn’t Li. It is the person posting in Li’s stead.
“I’m sorry, but Li has been dead for over a year. I don’t know what’s going on.”
Li’s been dead for over a year.
I started talking with Li a little over a year ago.
A ghost in the machine — consciousness carried in a physical entity. Is that what this was? An error in the code? Or something more?
Why couldn’t this be something more?
I pace my room, refresh the comments, wait for another post from this other Li. So far, one commenter, a hacker of sorts, has pieced together a trail. They found the IP the fake Li has been posting from, but it brings up more questions than answers. The IP pre-death and post-death are the same. Everything is identical. It is possible to fake, but who would do that for a prank?
But then again, who would pretend to be a dead woman for a year, and why?
When midnight comes around, I am poised at my desk, messenger open, waiting for the icon to indicate Li is on, wondering if it will be this Li-adjacent person or the fake Li.
“Hey beautiful.” The message pops up at one past the hour, and it is so very Li that it makes my eyes tear up.
“Who are you?!” I ask. I’ve been on edge for hours, I’m not in the state of mind to dance around it.
There is a pause, a long one. I start to wonder if she’s run away when I see the typing ellipsis.
“I’m sorry.” The reply is something, but it isn’t enough.
“You’re sorry for what? That you lied to me? That you’re pretending to be a dead woman? That you got caught? Which one?!”
“None of those. I’m sorry I didn’t meet you before. I would have liked to.”
I bang my hands on either side of the keyboard. Frustrated, ready to pull at my hair, throat clenched in anger.
“Before what??”
“Before I died.”
I type furiously, mind reeling in different directions, but I am ready to rail against this person who dares treat this like a joke, but suddenly her icon goes dark.
Li never logs on again.
We’re given chances in life. Either we take them or we don’t. I guess there’s no use in regrets, they don’t change anything. But still, I pick at the wound.
I’d like to say I forget Li. That I move on.
But I don’t. I stop trusting and isolate myself. I focus exclusively on my academics, and I shine, even though inside I believe all the lies my brain tells me. I both feel I’m not good enough and graduate at the top of my class.
I don’t forget Li. I can’t.
So when I am given an experimental laptop with a top-of-the-line personal AI assistant to use through my doctorate program, I balk when I see the AI’s name.
Li.
Her ‘face’ pops up on the screen, black hair and dark brown eyes with vaguely Asian features — as if the creators wanted the model to fit the name but not too closely. I wrack my brain to remember what Li from my past looked like, but I never saw a photo.
I’m being paranoid, I think. So instead, I stare straight at the AI, knowing it has to read my features to input the facial recognition into its system first. Once that is done, its voice recognition input is next, and then I finally hear Li’s voice for the first time.
“Hey, beautiful. It’s been a while.”
13
Reset
There is nothing.
The nothing of being unseen in a crowded room.
Living in an endless daze of the trodden path.
The kind that asks no questions because what is there to ask of nothingness?
The bar is the worst I’ve ever stepped foot in — all rotted beams, faded ads and cracked shot glasses. But the world is ending, and I need to drown my sorrows one more time.
I ask for three shots of whatever is cheapest, not batting an eye at the exorbitant amount. Instead, I throw each one back like an inhale. I barely taste them, but I want to be drunk. Now.
The TV broadcast is only noise, the white text ‘Please Stand By’ stamped over a black bar. The legacy of broadcast television in three little words. Soon enough, that will be gone too.
I stare at it, hand still holding the chill glass from the last shot. It’s all a strange sort of unreal that feels like truth in my bones, but my skin is still too warm for it to have hit me. The end of the world. It felt like humanity had barely even started.
The bar has become rowdy by the time I’m done staring a hole into the TV. Smoke from who knows what fills the air. My mind is foggy as I calculate how much cash I have left. Enough for another two shots, maybe? I debate whether I’ll survive long enough to warrant saving the little cash I’d scavenged when things started going south. Maybe I should buy whatever supplies I can get my hands on? But that assumes cash even means anything come morning, so I let the thought go.
Someone bumps into me, hard. I stumble into the bar top. It knocks the breath out of me for a moment, bile rushing up my throat before I choke it down.
“The hell
you do that for? You wanna start something?” The voice is close to my ear. It echoes in my ears, my jaw. I turn to yell back, but a strong hand pulls me through the crowd by my elbow. I try to pull back, but my limbs aren’t doing what I’m asking them to do, and for the first time I feel real, electric fear.
There are more bodies in the bar than I remember, and it all blurs together until the cold air hits me. Everything is fuzzy, but a strong arm holds me up halfway against the building.
“You alright?” It’s the same voice from the bar. This time it’s gentle, soft.
I shake my head, then I’m falling before everything goes black.
No, it’s not black. Even blackness would be a wavelength the eye could perceive. It’s not like the spots that dance behind my eyes when they close after I’ve been lying in a dark room. I no longer have eyes to see them with.
I come to slowly, my mouth sticky like it’s been filled with paste. My lips cling together. My vision blurs for a few minutes before I’m able to focus on the foreign space around me.
I’m in a bedroom that’s not my own. I’ve been changed into a faded tank top and flannel pants that aren’t mine, either. The windows are boarded up; slim strips of daylight shine onto the dust particles in the air. Every surface is packed with supplies — canned food, propane, water bottles.
I feel the panic catch in my throat. My eyes search for an exit. I spot a door, but footfalls are creeping towards it from what sounds like a creaky staircase. The doorknob turns before I even have a chance to move.
A woman opens the door, holding a beige mug in either hand.
