The casket creaked.
No one else heard it.
No one else saw his finger... cold and grey, tap twice against the wood.
A promise.
A threat.
I was the only one he'd come to collect from
Ásta Njáll. A name that once lit up marquees.Who hadn't heard of it in the New World?
The bright lights burned, sending sweat trickling down the back of her neck, yet how could anyone care about discomfort in a moment like this? Not when hundreds of hands clashed together in roaring applause, all for her. Ásta Njáll. A bright smile, a real smile, lit her face, again and again. Play after play, script after script, each one spun single-handedly from the whirlwind of her mind. Her imagination was a cacophony of spirits, whispering stories never before told. By the time Ásta's third play transferred to the West End, she'd stopped answering her own emails. A harried agent now screened offers. Everyone wanted a piece of her.
Success was an understatement.
...
Now it was a ghost in her own mouth.
Her office, once a temple of precision, all glass and sharp edges, was now a monument of decay. Crumpled pages weren't just discarded ideas, they were failed resurrection spells. Her hair, usually sleek as a curtain call, hung in a frayed tangle. Fingers dug into her scalp, nails digging into her skin, as if she could claw out the words that wouldn't come. The ink smeared on her arm wasn't a writer's mark, it was a bloodstain from the battle she was losing.
A knock.
"Go away." The voice that left her throat was a stranger's.
The door opened anyway.
"Ásta. You've been in here for days."
Örn, her creative assistant, stood framed in the doorway, A vision of composed ambition. The scent of bergamont was an assault. He was the real world, and the real world had an expiration date.
"I said go away, Örn." He stepped inside, nudging a crumpled draft with his oxford.
"You should go home. Even if you won't sleep."
"And do what?" Her laugh was a dry crack. "Stare at his empty room?"
Örn uncrumpled a page, smoothing it between his palms.
"This isn't nothing. The opening's strong. Let me help...."
"It's garbage." She snatched the sheet, tore it in half, before dropping back into the chair feeling the weight of the air she breathed. Örn exhaled through his nose.
"The board's breathing down my neck. Your contract's up in five months. No play, no company. Seven years, Ásta. Gone." He snapped his fingers. "You'll be a footnote."
The truth landed like a guillotine. It was an archeologist, brushing dust off the tomb she built for herself. A pause. Örn softened. "Ari wouldn't.."
"Don't." Her chair screeched as she stood. "You don't get to say his name."
"I'm sorry, it's just that..." He ran his hand through his hair, trailing off
"I understand" She said, her voice not above a whisper. A sigh escaped Örn
"I hope you do" He walked out, closing the door with a soft click.
The silence he left behind was not empty.
She packed up and walked out of her office, her eyes stinging from the light, her disheveled appearance drawing stares from others, stares she didn't even notice because of the cloud over her eyes only her saw.
As she stepped out she took a deep painful breath that made her bloodshot eyes sting from the moisture that started forming, she shook her head and walked to her car. The engine roared to life, a mechanical snarl in the suffocating silence of the parking garage. Ásta's hands trembled, just slightly against the steering wheel. The city outside blurred into streaks of neon and shadow as she accelerated, the lines of the road melting together like wet ink.
'Faster' the voice in her head urged, it wasn't a whisper, it was Ari's , cheerful, seductive. 'Faster sis. Just a little more, it's the ultimate dramatic exit.'
Her foot hovered over the gas. The speedometer climbed.
60 km/h.
80.
100.
A horn blared as she swerved, tires screeching. For a heartbeat, she imagined the impact, the crumple of metal, the shatter of glass, the blessed nothingness.
Then she slammed the brakes.
The car fishtailed, jerking to a stop inches from the curb. 'Pathetic' Her chest heaved, lungs burning. The laughter that bubbled up was jagged, hysterical. Pathetic. It was the true sound of her sanity breaking. Even her destruction was a half written first draft.
She rested her forehead against the wheel, the leather cool against her sweat-slick forehead. The whisper hissed, disappointed.
'Coward.'
She stopped the car right in front of her house, the house that now seemed painfully empty, too big for her alone, she got down from the car stumbling towards the house, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. The key turned in the lock with a click that echoed like a gunshot in the hollow dark. The door creaked open slowly, her chest tightening, and the air itself was thick, with the absence of HIM. She stepped Inside ignoring her aching muscles, her intestines literally clawing at her abdominal walls for food, The furniture sat untouched, pristine. Ari's shirt still sat on the sofa, it wasn't laundry, it was a shroud. That she couldn't bring herself to move.
The fridge hummed, the only sound in the suffocating quiet. She yanked it open, recoiling at the spoiled stench of forgotten takeout. It was a testament to time passing without him. A fly buzzed lazily over the rot.
'You should eat' Ari's voice chimed.
She slammed the door shut.
The living room TV was a black void. She pressed 'play' on the remote with numb fingers, and suddenly, there he was alive, frozen in time.
Ari, mid-soliloquy, his arms flung wide in theatrical flourish.
"For never was a tale of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo..."
Her breath hitched.
'The bottle cap unscrew it'
Her hands shook. She needed the burn, the blur, the slow dissolve of now. She drank in deep, ragged pulls until his smile ran like wet ink and the room lost its corners. She drank until the ghost of his laughter wasn't a memory, but a sound living in the air beside her.
Then she passed out on the couch, still in her clothes, the empty bottle cradled to her chest like a child holds a stuffed animal.
The TV played on, casting flickering shadows over her curled form.
A single, shuddering sob escaped her before sleep dragged her under.
....
Astá's POV
"Sis. Tonight. Do not be late. Oberon demands it." Ari's voice was sunshine, loud and warm through the phone. I could hear the grin in it.
"Demands, does he?" I rolled my eyes, grinning back.
"Did you finally bribe the drama teacher, or did he just run out of people willing to wear tights?"
"The vision was undeniable," he proclaimed, his stage-voice dialed up to eleven. Then it dropped, slipping into something quieter, real.
"Just... be there, okay?"
The sudden shift punched a small, warm hole in my chest. Ari wasn't the mushy type.
"Wild horses couldn't keep me away, you giant ham. Love you more than words."
A snort. "Ugh, cheese-fest. Don't ruin my dramatic exit." The line went dead.
I laughed, lowering the phone, the echo of his grin warming the quiet car.
The conference room buzzed with murmurs, but something was..... off. At first, it was small, just a flicker at the edge of my vision. The man across the table tapped his pen, but his pinky finger… it stretched, elongating like warm taffy, knuckles bulging grotesquely. I blinked. It snapped back to normal.
Then the woman beside him spoke, and her voice... glitched, deep, guttural, then shrill, like a broken recording. No one reacted.
A shadow passed over the projector screen. For a second, the man by the window turned translucent, his ribs glowing under his shirt like an X-ray. I rubbed my eyes.
"Sleep deprivation. That's all" I whispered to myself.
The meeting ended and I stopped at a little shop on the way, 'Ari would laugh his ass off if I showed up with flowers like some proud parent.' I thought to myself. Black roses. Dramatic, just like him.
The shopkeeper smiled as he wrapped them. His face rippled, just for a second, his features smearing like wet paint before snapping back.
"Long day?"he asked, handing me the bouquet.
I forced a laugh.
"Something like that." Outside, the air felt thick, syrupy. Two missed calls from Ari.
'I'll be there in ten minutes. He'll live' Ithought to myself.
As I drove, My chest ached, not pain, but a pressure, like something was sitting on my ribs, squeezing.
'Breathe. Just breathe. I can't let a little chest pain stop me from going to this play'. The steering wheel was slick under my palms.
The road ahead blurred. Streetlights stretched into glowing streaks. For a second, I thought... I saw a figure standing in the middle of the road, I swerved. Nothing there.
'Get it together.' I took a deep breath before stepping out of my car, I walked towards the school theatre. It was packed, there was no reason it shouldn't be. Everyone wanted to see their kid in a play, or at least criticize another person's kid. Parents whispered behind cupped hands. But the whispers… they weren't right. They were too low. Too guttural. Like words played backward. I ignored them, pushing to the front.
The lights dimmed. The opening scenes were a blur of Athenian nobles and quarreling lovers, just filler, the boring part before the magic. I wasn't here for them. I was here for him. For the moment he'd been humming for weeks, the lines he'd practiced in the shower, over breakfast, until I could recite them in my sleep.
And then he was there. Oberon, King of the Fairies, draped in a ridiculous velvet cloak that somehow looked regal on him. He spotted me in the front row and winked.
'God, he's such a dork. ' I grinned, clutching the stupid, dramatic roses. This was it. His moment
Bang.
The sound wasn't loud. It was a pop, like a balloon bursting.
For a heartbeat, nothing. The world froze on a single frame.
Ari, as Oberon, his arms spread wide.
Red bloomed on his chest, not a trickle. A violent flowering against the cheap velvet.
Then screams. Not from me. My voice was trapped in the cement settling in my veins.
I was on my feet. The world became a smear of panic. I shoved, I clawed, someone grabbed my arm, I broke their grip without feeling it.
The stage lights weren't lights anymore,they were merciless Suns exposing a sacrifice.
I vaulted onto the stage. My knees hit the wood with a crack I didn't hear. His breath came in wet, ragged gasps. A horrible gurgling rhythm.
"Ari. Look at me. "
My hands went to his chest. The warmth was a shock.
So much blood. It pulsed between my fingers, a hot living thing escaping him. I tore at me shirt, stuffing the fabric into the hole. It was like trying to hold back the ocean with a sieve.
'This is not happening. This Is a play. A terrible act. I'll... I'll rewrite it later. '
His hand found mine. Cold. Already cold.
"Heh, no Tony for me, huh? " He said his voice was a strained parody of his own.
"Shut up. You're fine... " The lie tasted like metal on my tongue
His eyes, yellow, bright, the only colour left, locked on mine. They weren't reading the ceiling anymore. They were reading me. Seeing the desperation, the futile hope.
"Why are you trying" He whispered.
His thumb brushed my cheek, smearing tears I didn't know were falling. This gesture was so... Ari, So gentle, even as he was being unmade.
"Love you…" A faint smile touched his lips. "Payback's a bitch" It wasnt a fair well. It was a curse. A final, devastating piece of dialogue from an actor who knew his last line had to land.
His hand fell limp. The light in his eyes didn't fade. It snapped off. Like a switch being thrown.
"No... No... NO!!!" I shook him. A desperate, stupid attempt to restart his heart through brute force.
The screams, the echoes, the chaos, all of it was white noise. The only thing that was real was the weight of him getting heavier in my arms.
Hands. Pulling me. Blue uniforms.
My own hands were painted red. Ari's blood was already drying, cracking at the knuckles like rust. Like the first scab on a wound that would never heal.
Voices buzzed around me like flies
.... suspect in custody.....
.....random attack.....
....tragic loss....
I didn't hear them
All I heard was the silence he left behind.
A silence that had a voice.
A silence that would, from that moment on, always whisper back.
The next thing I knew, I was standing on the front step.
Our house.
The one I bought for us.
My hand was on the knob.
I didn't remember driving. I didnt remember leaving.
The door creaked open. I'd never heard that before.
I was numb. My hollow, aching with a pressure that had no source.
Ari's voice rang inside it.
It was a live wire, the last word he'd ever said to me, looping on a scream I never got to voice.
'Payback's a bitch'
I stumbled into the living room and froze.
I was on the couch.
I was on the couch.
Not a memory. Not a trick of the light. A body twisted in the same clothes, lying in the exact shape of collapse.
It twitched.
A jerky puppeted spasm. Then it pushed itself up, limbs moving with wrong insectile manner.
It's face was mine, but cracked. Fractures webbed across the skin, like old porcelain. It's eyes were dark pits, the sockets swallowing the dim light.
'That's not me. It can't be me. '
"You could have saved him" It The voice was a perfect mimicry. It came from its broken mouth, but the sound seemed to bypass my ears and form directly in the center of my mind. My own words played back from a corrupted tape.
My head throbbed, a sickening counter rhythm to the words.
"I'm sorry" I choked out, the apology automatic, meant for Ari, for the universe, for the thing wearing my skin.
It lunged.
I didn't... no, I couldn't move. It's hands clamped onto the sides of my head. The touch searing cold that burned.
"You should have saved him!!!"
The voice wasn't in my mind anymore. It was my mind.
It shattered through every thought. every memory. leaving only the accusation. My heart seized. My vision funneled to those dark pits.
'Not me. NOT ME. '
A scream erupted, raw and endless. It tore from my lungs, but it also came from the thing, from the cracks in its face, from the very air between us, a single sound of agony shared between two bodies, one real, one impossible.
I jolted upright, a strangled sound rippling through my throat.
The living room ceiling swam in and out of focus. My clothes were drenched in sweat, the fabric of the couch sticking to my back, cold and clammy.
The taste of copper filled my mouth, accompanied by the sharp pain of the sore spot on my tongue where I had bit.
I gasped, my lungs burning as if I'd been drowning.
My hands shot up to my face, patting, probing.
Fingertips checking for cracks, for the brittle edges of that other face. They found nothing but sweat, and the frantic pulse at my temple.
Silence. Thick. Waiting.
My eyes darted, scraping every shadow in the room. The shape of the armchair. The dark maw of the hallway. Nothing moved.
The empty Bacardi bottle lay on it's side by my feet, the last amber drops clinging to the glass like something viscous, almost alive.
Each heartbeat was a defeaning, painful clang.
The clock glowed in the dark.
3:47 AM.
A hysterical laugh bubbled in my chest. Of course. The witching hour. When the things that wore skin came to whisper.
'Its not over. Its just waiting' I didn't think the words. I felt them, a cold, certain dread settling into the hollow of my ribs.
My reflection in the black TV screen: hollow-eyes, cracked lips , a wild tangle of hair . A shadow shifted behind me in the glass.
I whipped around.
Nothing. Just the empty house. The listening house.
A floorboard creaked upstairs. My breath hitched
'He's here. He was always here'
The nightmares didn't sleep anymore. It was breathing in the walls. Taunting me with whispers and shadows that shouldn't be there.
I deserved it.
My hand shot out for the bottle again, fingers curling around cool neck. Then froze.
'What was the point? It doesn't drown them. It just makes them louder.'
I stood. The world tilted, the walls pulsing. I needed air that wasn't this air.
I stumbled to the door, fumbling with the lock. The night air hit me like a whip, cold and sharp. Shocking my lungs into a ragged gasp.
The street was a still lige; empty, silent, painted in sodium glow and long shadows. Just the hum of the streetlights and the whisper of the wind through the trees.
And then...
"Sis…"
The voice was faint. Unmistakable. Not a whisper, but a word. From behind me. Inside.
I froze. I didn't turn.
I couldn't.
Because if I turned and saw nothing, the disappointment would finish me.
So I stood there, trembling on the threshold, caught between the horrors of the house and the terrifying emptiness of the world outside. His voice wasn't comfort, it was an accusation.
The realization was cold and absolute
There is no escape.
Not from this.
Not from me.
Utterly alone
A gaping void, where my soul used to be, and Ari along with it.
I slammed the door, locking it.
My legs gave out. My head met the floor with a dull, unimportant thud. No more words. Just the silent screaming truth of what I had become.
I have my hands on my soul, like a dead man's on a bible.
-Sylvia Plath