The lamp next to my sofa flickers. I tap it with my knuckle—the flicker stops, the yellow glow returns—steady. Three days now. Three days without sleep.
I run a hand through my sandy blonde hair and exhale—my breath stinks of gas station pep pills, fast food, and warm energy drinks. I rub my eyes and stare at the coffee cups crowding the coffee table in front of me. Some are half-full.
They've been cold for hours.
Cans of various energy drinks, the only things not covered in dust, line the mantle, blocking photos of my family—my mom, dad, and me—even my graduation, my first time fishing, and a birthday or two.
The trash can in the kitchen overflows with more. It reeks.
My chest is tight, my head pounds, and my hands won't stop shaking. I reach for another energy drink, cracking the tab open.
It's too loud in the quiet house.
I take a long pull. It burns going down, pinpricks of pain crawl down my throat and settle in my gut.
I stare at the beige walls. They blur, sinking inward, like they're about to fall on me. I shake my head, and when I look back, they're normal, straight, up and down walls. I look at the couch.
This ugly floral couch my mom gave me looks like piss in the yellow light—the whole room's piss-yellow.
The fridge kicks on with a hum. My head snaps towards the kitchen. I sink into the couch; muscles loosen; my body becomes heavy.
These are normal sounds. Safe sounds.
My eyelids droop.
My body jerks upright, spilling my drink on my jeans.
"Shit," I say, but I don't move to clean it. The cold shocks me awake for a second, but the sensation fades; my senses dull. Couch cushions drag me down—my vision blurs. The lamp dims. It's not the bulb; it's me.
The fridge stops humming.
The clock stops ticking.
The house stops creaking.
Silence.
I snap awake, sitting up straight.
Too close.
I take another long pull from my energy drink.
"Stay awake, stay awake," I say to myself, and polish off the energy drink before I grab a cup of old coffee from the table. I down it, then jump to my feet and jog in place before I pace the room.
"Three days, seventy-two hours. People have gone longer. Way longer."
I walk to the kitchen and back. Then spin and back into the kitchen, then back.
I look at my phone. It's 2:47 PM.
"I can do three more hours. Then it'll be light."
My legs are heavy. Each step takes effort. I trip and my shin cracks against the table. I hit the floor. Hard. The force knocks the half-filled coffee cups over. They spill, soaking into the tan carpet.
"Shit. What a mess."
I stay down.
The carpet feels nice, and my breath slows. My eyes shut, even though I know better.
Then, I'm there.
I'm floating in a void of indescribable color. It swirls about me, a vibrant, throbbing color. It stings my eyes, but I can't close them; something in the color prevents me. It wants me to look.
A voice sings, low and sorrowful, in a language I can't understand. It has no source, no discernible direction. It's all around me.
More voices join in, and their pain moves through me, reverberating through my bones. My stomach turns. I want to throw up, but I can't.
Then the first voice speaks. Its words cut through the hymnal like a bell. Sharp. Clean. Perfect English.
"Join the many above the world."
The void is ripped away, and I'm drifting in the infinite blackness of space, high above the Earth and the massive, pulsing ring circling it. From inside the ring, voices cry out, millions of them. Then I see them, swirling liquid forms joined together, not quite human, their faces distorting as they sing.
Suddenly, I'm plummeting downwards towards the ring, and the creatures reach for me. They grab and claw at me, pulling me down to join them. The ring is cold like death.
I scream. My eyes snap open.
I'm on my living room floor. The carpet is wet and cold. My throat's raw.
I sit up. The room is dark—the lights are dead. From the kitchen, I hear the mechanical hum of the fridge motor start, and my body relaxes.
Then I hear something else.
Crick-crack.
The sound is muffled, as if it's coming from outside.
Crick-crick-crack.
Louder this time, closer. I look towards the corner of the living room. A crack hovers in the air in front of the tall plant in the corner.
Crick. Crack.
Bits of reality chip away. And inside the crack is that awful color.
I scoot backwards, my back slamming into the edge of my coffee table. I cry out, a faint, raspy, painful noise.
A dark shape moves within the color—human—almost. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
It stares at me with wild, kaleidoscope eyes.
"Go away," I say. "Please…" My voice stretches into a thin whine. I can't stop shaking.
"Please," I say again, and I can feel the tears stream down my face.
It doesn't respond. It just stares and steps out of the crack.
-Calvin Moore.