With a deep sigh, I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and the tension in my shoulders ebbs away. The decision is made. I’m staying until morning. Buttermilk struggles free of my jacket and jumps down. With casual authority, she investigates the room, her tail twitching erratically in the dim light, perhaps a mix of irritation, discomfort and relief to mirror my own.

  “Tim…” His still shape lies in a bloody mess on the lounge carpet, just over there, pale, sickly green and swollen.

  I should cover him, but I can’t leave him here. I’m here now, and this is my home. I don’t want to see him, don’t want him looking at me. I can't sleep knowing he’s right here in the middle of the room. His bedroom is a war zone; mud and blood and filth tracked and trailed across the bed, across the carpet. It’s disgusting. But it’s his room. It’s his and he should be there shouldn’t he? He shouldn’t have to lie out here. So I steel myself. This is the last thing I can do for him. There’s no one else to do it so that makes it my job… my responsibility.

  “Rara! Jeez, keep it down, for crying out loud! I can’t hear myself think!”

  Tim is slumped in his gaming chair, headphones covering his ears and blocking out the world, but still yelling at me over the sound of his stupid game. The fireballs exploding on his giant screen cast a vicious glow, bathing his darkened room in reds and oranges and strange, unearthly greens. I’m only trying to practice my violin, but he always acts like it’s the worst sound in the world, says it’s like I’m torturing a cat. My eyes sting but I hold back the tears, throwing my bow onto the carpet and storm over to punch his stupid face, screaming something incoherent that almost manages to sound like “you’re mean and your games are dumb.”

  He ignores me, clenches his fist and keeps playing, then abruptly slams the escape key and sighs, loud and heavy. The game menu comes up, and he pulls his headphones down around his neck, his face all scrunched up in annoyance as he pushes his palms into his temples and looks at me, serious, but soft. "Look, ten minutes and I’m out of here. I just want to kill this boss and then you can do whatever you want, okay?"

  I swallow, the anger melting, and point at the screen where his character stands frozen mid animation. Just above him, a giant, jagged blue energy ball hovers in the air, glowing with thick, unstable power. "What's that?"

  He glances at the screen, rolls his eyes. "It’s his ult. Probably another wipe... Don't worry about it. Look…" He mutes the game entirely, shutting out the menu music, plunging his room into deadly silence and reaches into his desk drawer. He pulls out a half eaten chocolate bar—his favourite. "Here. Shut up and eat this on the stairs. Don't tell Mom I gave you any before dinner." He looks genuinely horrified by the prospect of being nice but that soft sparkle in his eyes is still there, like marshmallows hidden inside a stone.

  I grab the chocolate bar, instantly forgetting the game and my violin. He never shares his stuff with me and I don't even say thank you. I just retreat to the top step like an animal with a stolen prize and devour the whole thing. It’s delicious.

  I take him by the hand, desperately trying to ignore the slick, cold, nauseating feel of the bloated flesh. It feels spongy, wrong, like touching a giant, rotten fruit. The instant, thick burst of flies that erupts from his clothes and limbs as I disturb his slumber sends a fresh wave of nausea through me, a desperate, silent plea for retreat. He’s heavy—so heavy—a dead weight that resists any attempt to move it, resists my very will and my arms shake violently with the effort. My feet slip on the blood-soaked carpet, forcing me to lean further, pulling from my core. He shifts suddenly, like some disgusting, smelly glue has given way and I drag him backwards, grating him across the stiff persian carpet like a sled. The carpet fibers snag on his dirty yellow pajamas, his skin smearing stinking fluids in visible, putrid streaks against the dirty white tiles of the hall. The sound is thick and sickening, a terrible, wet shhhrrrrk that makes my stomach clench and my teeth grind.

  It takes forever, the effort burning in my shoulders and lower back, like I’m pulling a train. Every inch is a battle. It’s utterly exhausting and the clammy, disgusting feeling of his skin against mine is almost too much. I stop twice, leaning against the wall, head bowed, heaving, fighting down the bile that’s rising in my throat. I spit the bitter taste onto the tiles, but I don’t throw up, I fight and I force myself to continue. I know if I throw up, I’ll never be able to do it.

  No matter what, I can't look at his face, keep my gaze locked on his collarbone, I can’t look at him or I’ll be sick. All I can do is focus on the dirty yellow of his pajamas, on the small, frayed hem of his sleeve, on anything but what I’m doing. The faint scent of his old, familiar deodorant is almost worse than the decay—a cruel, pathetic memory of my one and only brother. It makes it so much harder to keep going, I want to stop. I just want to stop and not do this.

  The moment I reach his door, I brace myself, resting for a final, shaky moment. Every drop of strength left in me pours into this final tug. I pull with everything I have, my jaw tight, and finally the task is done. He slides through the doorway, his head bumping softly on the wood frame. I let go of his hand, and his arm thuds softly to the ruined carpet, twisting around. I take the last shred of will I have left and reach down to pull his duvet over him, covering the mess and the yellow pajamas, my big brother.

  The tension eases from my limbs in a moment and I almost throw up as I dash from the room, slamming the door shut behind me, collapsing back against it with an exhausted sigh of not quite relief. Leaning against it, breathing in ragged, shallow gasps, I fight down the bile, forcing myself to take a breath, another. Deep, deliberate breaths. Just breathe. But my hands are shaking uncontrollably, slick with filth. It’s a fight, a fight against my racing heart that’s trying to beat its way out of my chest. A fight against my bubbling tummy. That was awful. But a silent, desperate prayer of thanks escapes me. I can’t believe I just did that. His door is closed. I did it.

  “I’ll miss you, Tim.” The words are silent, trapped in my throat, choked down by the overwhelming stench of rot.

  Now what? My eyes wander over the bloody, awful tracks I’ve dragged across the hall and the lounge floor. The gore is everywhere. There’s nothing I can really do about this… is there? Is there even any point in cleaning? Everyone is gone. But the flies answer my question as soon as it forms in my head. The low, persistent buzzing is infuriating, an assault on my ears. I can’t spend the night like this. The whip of air as they blow by my ear and the crawling, creeping feeling of their dirty little feet running over my skin is enough to make me gag. They have to go… this is my house.

  I push off the door and move toward the laundry room where Mom kept all the cleaning stuff. It's an automatic, compulsive action, an act of reclamation, seizing my own small pocket of order in a world that’s turned inside out. Under the sink, I find a yellow bottle of lemon scented bleach—the one Mom always bought—and a can of all purpose bug spray that’s still sealed with plastic tape. I grab a mop and sponge, fill a bucket with water and too much tile cleaner, watching the foam rise aggressively to the brim.

  Something inside me snorts sarcastically at the idea of cleaning —everyone is dead! Why bother? The house is ruined!— but I push the cynical voice down. Shut up. I’m doing this. I want to. I need to. It’s not just a house, it’s my house, Mom’s house, Tim’s house… their final resting place. They deserve better than this. But I falter at the door to Mom’s room, standing with my eyes on the polished wood floor for too long, a strange, hollow ache spreading through my chest before my mind starts working again.

  I reach out and, with the tip of one finger, pull the door completely shut. I don’t dare look inside, not again. “Goodnight, Mom.” It’s a ridiculous thing to say, a childish ritual from before, but it makes the ache just a little bit smaller, just a little more manageable.

  The buzzing is everywhere, a maddening drone that grows louder as I approach the pools of gore. Why does killing these things make me feel so much better? It’s cathartic, a perverse form of revenge against nature and its silent, thoughtless consumption. The spray has a sharp odor that makes me cough but I spray it everywhere, merciless; saturating the air, gleefully watching the dark specks drop mid flight, to squirm and writhe and die in droves on the floor.

  The rug is a disgusting mess, the centerpiece of the carnage, so I pour the bleach directly onto it, onto the tiles, tracing the wide, dark tracks of filth back to Tim’s room. The stench of decay is immediately overwhelmed by the fierce, chemical cloud of the bleach. It's as harsh as the stink of death, but clean; choking, but clean. It's a cleansing of fire and spite that feels unnaturally good. It’s me against the evil world, but for a single moment, all the power is mine.

  Scrub, scrub, scrub with the sponge. I press down with my whole weight, scraping the mess from tile and filthy carpet. The water goes instantly brown and foul, a thick, sickening sludge, and the streaks of gore turn to muddy blooms, slowly turning clear and disappearing as I work. But the carpet just gets worse, the bleach burning crimson stains, an angry, sickening orange against the original color. It’s hopelessly ruined. I don’t know what else to do so I grab the biggest towel I can find, a fluffy, white one from the guest bathroom, and use it to scrub the worst of the gore and fluid from the rug but it’s no use. It’s not working.

  Buttermilk watches me with a veiled disinterest from the kitchen table, occasionally flicking her tail or sneezing from the choking chemicals, and I sigh as I realise I’m being stupid again. No one cares about the carpet. No one’s coming back. No one’s coming… so it doesn’t matter what I do. This is for me. This is just… the only way I can breathe.

  I grab the corner of the rug, heaving its heavy, sodden weight, and drag it to the front door, opening it wide—fierce gusts of cold, driven rain tearing through the opening, snapping the air out of my lungs. I drag the filthy mess onto the wet lawn, letting the storm claim it. It’s still raining. A little harder than before, the drops, heavier, colder, denser, striking the roof with a sharper sound, but the worst is yet to come, I’m sure of it. I’m glad I stayed. I’d be soaked already. Out there, lost, or a shivering stranger in someone else’s house. I’m safe for now, but a knot of unease is building in my tummy again, tight and relentless. What about tomorrow? What if the rain doesn’t stop? What if I can’t leave?

  Shut up! That’s tomorrow’s problem. But the thought won’t go away. It niggles at the back of my mind, distracting me, making me hesitate as the wind and rain slash at my body. A few short seconds of standing on the open threshold, debating the future, is enough. A moment of indecision and I’m soaked. The left side of my body, the side exposed to the opening, is instantly chilled. If not for the heavy jacket, I’d be utterly sodden. My shoes are squelching with water, my trousers, my stockings; and the cold, penetrating gale is tearing at my skin as it blasts through the door into the entrance hall. I dart back inside and wrestle the heavy door shut behind me, fighting the wind that tries to rip it from my grasp, to send me tumbling away like a tiny, helpless doll. The wood thumps into the frame. “Well… this is going great.”

  Twisting the dead bolts to lock it tight, sliding the cold metal home with a sound of mechanical finality, I turn from the door, surveying the lounge and kitchen, the shredded pillows and scattered filth, the fresh streaked tiles. Cleaning up with Mom always came naturally to me. She never liked to leave a mess; she’d say “a tidy house makes for a tidy mind.” I’m just like her. It’s a reassuring thought, but one that hurts like a thousand tiny, broken memories, little moments, little pins that connect us forever across the chasm of what happened.

  I need to finish cleaning. For Mom, for me, so I don’t forget. I start back in the lounge, mop the floor until the tiles gleam and wipe down the filthy leather couches, gathering up the foam and shredded pillow stuffing, doing my best to make it like it was but nothing is perfect. Not anymore. The kitchen is easier on my stomach, not as bad as it looked when I got here, not as bad as the lounge. The dogs have been in the bin, torn the bag out and scattered rubbish across the floor but that’s about it. My hands move on autopilot, gathering the rubbish from the floor, wiping the counters, the need to restore order overriding the weight of my exhaustion. I throw the new garbage bag into the bin, tied up tight to seal away the stink, but even as the countertops gleam and the floor is clear, the signs of violence remain—the foam-flecked, shredded pillows, the gnawed leather of the couch. The illusion of order is as fragile as glass.

  The lounge and kitchen still smell like the hellish cloy of artificially scented chemicals, a bright, toxic aroma, but the stink of death is barely noticeable now, merely a faint, too sweet whiff beneath the lemony harshness of bleach. I open the windows, just a crack, just a click on the mechanism that holds them open, but the vicious wind blasts through the gap all the same, spilling into the house like a river, whistling and sucking out the poison, replacing it with the biting cold and the fresh, metallic scent of rain. It feels like the house is finally breathing again. But it’s breathing ice and fire.

  The draft makes me shiver. I look down at my clothes, my trousers and stockings soaked from my moment of indecision, clinging to my legs. My shoes are sodden, heavy and cold. Worse, there’s a smear of something nasty—dark and unidentifiable—on my knee. The lingering stench of bleach and decay remains on the fabric and I shudder with disgust as the thought of that vile, stinking gunk wriggles through my brain. The contamination is everywhere. Even as I tell myself that this is the new normal, that I’m going to have to live with it eventually, the urge to be clean has already won the fight. I’m home. I have my clothes, my bathroom, my soap, my bed and I don’t have to smell like one of them today. I get to be me again, if only for a night.

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  That sick, empty feeling is chewing at my insides, I’m hungry again, desperately so, but the crawling, creeping feeling under my skin makes even the mere thought of food seem gross. I need to wash the stink off. I need to feel clean again and the impulse drives me straight to the big bathroom. It’s the big one I shared with Mom, and seeing her floral bathrobe still hanging on the hook makes my throat tighten. The bathroom is an island of preserved normalcy, the air here, still and clean, free of the ubiquitous stench of rot. It’s my home and she’s everywhere. The tile is pristine, the porcelain bowl gleaming, a bottle of half-used shampoo sitting on the edge of the tub. The mirror above the sink is sparkling like diamond, a clear, silent witness to the world that was, and the stranger on the other side almost scares me to death. I haven’t seen my reflection in days. I haven't dared to look. It feels like a line I shouldn't cross, a truth I'm not ready to see.

  But today, something inside me snaps. I'm not a ghost yet, not one of them. I'm still me, still me. I stand before the mirror, my heart thumping a frantic, hollow rhythm. I don't look up, my eyes remain fixed on my grimy hands gripping the edge of the sink and the crucifix that’s been clenched in my right hand since I found it, knuckles white. The cold of the porcelain seeps into my skin, but it doesn't ground me, the grime just makes me hesitate, makes me wonder if I really want to see who I’ve become, but slowly, reluctantly, I lift my head.

  The girl in the mirror is terrifying. Her hair, once a cascade of warm brown, is a matted, tangled mess. Her cheeks are smudged with grime, cut with clean lines where the tears have washed pale roads through the dirt, and there’s a dark streak running across her forehead from a cut I didn’t even know I had. But it's her eyes that truly terrify me. They’re no longer mine. The odd, whimsical appeal of my mismatched irises, utterly consumed by a hollow, haunting darkness, by a sadness so deep it seems to swallow all light. Dark, bruised rings circle them, the restless nights and constant terrified vigilance etched into the skin in a violent purplish brown and a hardened, brutal certainty has replaced the innocence in her expression. It's the face of a survivor, and it's a face I don't recognize. I reach out, my trembling fingers brushing the pristine glass, a silent plea to the stranger staring back at me. "Who are you?" I whisper, my voice a dry, ragged thing. The reflection doesn't answer. It just stares, wide eyed and watchful and cold; the look of some wild thing, not a girl.

  I tear myself away, forcing the hellish image from my mind, throwing myself at the thought of getting clean, of banishing her away, if only for a night. With frantic energy, drawn from some unknown place, I drag my soiled clothes off once again, throwing the filth into the corner, as far away as it can go before I turn to jump in the shower—the nagging reminder of water restrictions ever present in my mind. It’s a ghost from the old world, just a thing that’s always been there—but even as my toes find the drain in the big, terracotta tiles, and even as my fingers find the cold, steel handle of the mixer tap, my eyes lock on the huge, luxurious porcelain tub that stands as a centerpiece to the room. It looks deep, inviting, and impossibly clean. And, it’s mine now.

  A wicked smile pulls on the edges of my mouth, a wild, defiant expression. Jumping out of the shower with a sort of glee that shouldn’t be allowed, I turn the taps with a bold, selfish rebellion, both the hot and the cold, all the way open, ignoring the ghost of Mom telling me to conserve our precious water. The tub fills rapidly with crystal clear liquid and a thick cloud of steam instantly turns the room into a sauna, blurring the edges of the white tiled walls. In the linen cupboard, I find an enormous jar of lavender bath salts, Mom’s expensive treat and with reckless abandon, I pour far too much into the rushing water. The scent is immediately sharp and herbaceous, the soapy powder turning the water a cloudy greenish blue as I wait greedily for the tub to fill. It’s been forever since Mom let me use so much water, since I had this luxury, and the yearning as I wait is near unbearable, a physical, aching need for comfort.

  While I wait, I step into the shower, find Mom’s special creamy soap, her favourite citrus shampoo, and scrub and scrub until I’m red and raw and my hair smells like oranges, until the little, rose gold cross and its glittering white stones are free of their awful muck. As I scrub, the grazes on my knees and palms prickle and the bruises on my thighs jump out at me again, dark and ugly against my pale skin. They still hurt so I’m careful not to scrub too hard near them but the urge to be clean is greater than the pain.

  Finally, the bath is ready. Finally I can relax. I punch the shiny chrome button and the massage jets whirl to life with a low, churning thrum that drowns out the world, the wind and the thundering drum of rain. With that, I sink down into the deep, blessed heat. The water closes over my shoulders, and the worries of the day, the fear and pain and the horror of the past week melt away, into nothingness, dissolving like the bath salts. It’s pure bliss, a moment of perfect, absolute escape.

  For just a little while, there’s nothing but the pulsing jets of water and the overwhelming scent of lavender, and heat, flooding my aching muscles, clouding my thoughts with a listless state of calm. Mindlessly, gently, I fidget with the necklace as the warmth leaches the tension from every tendon and joint. I don’t think, I don’t move, I just exist, suspended in a maelstrom of fragrant, broiling warmth—a pocket in time where, for a moment, nothing bad can touch me.

  Safe, I drift on the surface of my consciousness, witnessing tiny, fragmented memories—fragile, shimmering, so delicate that to think would be their end: Mom laughing as she brushes my hair, Tim giving me his ice cream when I dropped mine at the beach, the three of us curled up in a fort of sofas watching movies last Christmas. They’re not painful memories, just quiet, vivid echoes of what was, floating on the steam, proving that they were alive, they were real.

  As the water slowly cools, the jets winding down into silence and the cloudy surface becoming still, I come back to my senses. My eyes wander over the white tiled walls and fall upon the little white cat whose presence I’d completely forgotten. Buttermilk is sitting on the basin, cleaning herself meticulously. As I turn my attention to her, she seems to sense my gaze and turns to look, quietly watching me with her wide, curious yellow eyes. I stay for what feels like a lifetime, until the water is cold and my skin is wrinkled and pale, like wet tissue paper, finally pulling myself from the water and into the arms of a giant, fluffy towel that compliments the earthy colour of the tiles. When I’m dry, I put on my favourite pair of winter pajamas, the ones with the little starry patterns that I got for my birthday, and wrap myself up warm in my thick, plush gown.

  Dressed in the dry, comforting softness, the clean cotton gentle against my raw, pink skin, I feel like a new person—resilient, focused—the grime and the horror washed away. The exhausted ache has eased into a sleepy warmth. But the hollow ache in my stomach will not be ignored any longer. It's insistent, demanding my immediate attention.

  I need to eat something real.

  The fridge is a sudden siren call, a beacon of promise in the now dark kitchen. I hit the lightswitch and dive in. Eggs, butter, cheese, bacon. A feast. I can eat whatever I want, every last thing. It will all go to waste if I don’t, and that thought seems criminal. I pull out everything I can carry and fire up the stove. The act of gathering ingredients, turning knobs and watching flames erupt around the gas burner is a small, satisfying spark of connection to what was. The hiss of butter melting is the most beautiful sound I’ve heard all night, all week. It makes my tummy grumble in anticipation, my mouth waters from the rich aroma.

  Soon, the glorious smell of frying bacon—salty, smoky, and intense like only bacon can be—completely smothers the last traces of the house’s lingering chemical stink. The sound alone is music, a chaotic, delicious, sizzling counterpoint to the howling wind. I make an enormous omelet, mixing four eggs with generous chunks of crispy bacon, letting it set, then folding it over a melting mound of oozing cheese. I drizzle it with every drop of grease from the pan, ignoring every lesson Mom ever taught me about healthy eating. It’s nothing like what she would have made—hers were always light and fluffy—but it’s exactly how she would have made it for me if something bad had happened—perfect, comforting, and obscenely decadent.

  I slide the entire thing onto a plate and take a seat on a bar stool, stuffing a huge forkful into my mouth before I even hit the chair. It’s hot—too hot. I spit it back onto the plate but the roof of my mouth is already burned and peeling. A cold glass of juice soothes the pain while I wait for my dinner to cool and finally, carefully, I take another, smaller bite.

  The warm, rich, salty flavour explodes in my mouth with every mouthful, engulfing me in its deliciousness. The tender eggs, the crisp pop of the bacon fat, the warm, stringy cheese. The grease and cheese coat my mouth, my lips, chasing away the gnawing ache and replacing it with satisfying fullness. It’s the first time in days that I’ve eaten a real, hot, cooked meal and the feeling is incredible, radiating through me with a deep, primal delight that only good food can bring. But Buttermilk is hungry too. She jumps up on the counter beside me, begging, investigating the pile of food, eagerly pacing back and forth, frantically talking to me with that strange little squeak of a cat that cannot meow.

  I separate out a piece of the crispiest bacon and hold it out. Buttermilk stops her frantic pacing instantly, her squeaking cut off mid-wail. She snatches the piece with surprising delicacy—her tiny teeth barely touching my finger—retreating quickly to the edge of the counter to devour it as I watch. Her satisfied chewing, the intense focus in her yellow eyes is adorable, a mirror of my own desperate hunger. I give her another piece and another until her pace slows and she looks up, blinking sleepily. The omelet is gone in no time flat, quicker than it took to make it, but the satisfaction lingers long after it has ceased to be, a warmth that radiates from through me.

  Dressed in my soft pajamas and full of warm, delicious food, I feel centered, grounded, and almost human again. But the illusion of safety is thin, even as my tummy smiles, I can feel it. The storm howls outside, a furious, living thing, and the house creaks and groans with unseen pressures. It’s a war between the world and this little pocket of light but for now, it’s outside and I’m inside. It’s time for bed. I gather Buttermilk into my arms, tucking her inside my gown like a fuzzy, warm secret, and return to my room.

  It’s clean, untouched by the horrors of the last week, my sanctuary. I slide the heavy oak dresser up against the door, digging my heels into the carpet, dragging it with all my might across the carpet. It moves in short, scraping, terrible bursts until it thumps into place against the wood partition. The sound of the wood against the carpet is jarring and loud in the quiet house, but the final, solid thud when the dresser settles is final and absolute. It’s not moving. It’s an impenetrable wall, a barrier against the chaotic world outside. Just for tonight, in my own home, in my own bed, with Buttermilk purring against my heart, I’m safe.

  My body feels ready for bed, heavy and tired, but my mind hasn’t yet caught up with the evening lull. It’s still racing through the day's madness, trying to make sense of the senseless, decimation and the empty void left behind.

  The heavy meal and warm bath have quelled my physical needs, but the maelstrom of thoughts are still too frantic for rest. The silence of the house, broken only by the wind rattling against my window, is a growing, suffocating presence. Sound, something human, that’s what I need now. Music. I slide quietly from the bed, and retrieve my smartphone from my backpack.

  I open the radio app and hold my breath. After a moment of searching, the phone pulls in a local signal, loud and chillingly clear. It’s like nothing has happened, like the radio doesn’t know the world has ended. I tune in right in the middle of an overly cheerful pop song—a catchy, synthetic beat beneath a melody of weekend plans. The sheer normalcy of the music is so mind-bendingly surreal in this new reality that it makes my blood run cold. It’s the ultimate, jarring confirmation of the instant and total catastrophe that’s swallowed the world and left me all alone.

  The song cuts off abruptly, and a familiar, deep voice booms out a commercial for a home furnishing sale that ended a week ago, followed by a strange pause that skips straight into the next song. The programming is flawless, automated, and utterly oblivious. There is no news break, no desperate plea, no human voice to interrupt the scheduled content. It’s just a mindless stream of music and ads, a perfect, automated echo of the dead world, following its programmed routine like a zombie performing its final, useless chore. The hollow, upbeat performance is far more terrifying than the silence, it’s a last, definitive answer from the outside, like the world is finally confirming what I’ve known for days.

  I hit the scan button and the app switches to a station playing classical music. The contrast is shocking. It’s a slow, emotional piece I’ve heard before, deep, resonating, human. It’s soft, something Dad would listen to, soothing and perhaps a little mournful but not jarring like the first song. It’s all the words I can’t say, the words I will never be able to say to them again. I turn the volume to the lowest possible setting, tucking the phone under my pillow so the music is barely audible—a thin, mechanical presence to fight the void—then I crawl back under the duvet, the gentle, automated melody filling my thoughts, fighting the howl of the wind outside away into the background. I close my eyes, pull the blankets tight, and let the music’s perfectly articulated sorrow drift with me as the world slowly fades away, but it just won’t let me go.

  The wind is the sound of a thousand broken things. It whips rain against my bedroom window with vicious fury, a non-stop drumming that rattles the glass and pulses through the very walls.

  But sleep eludes me. I squeeze my eyes shut until bright shapes flash behind my eyelids, breathe slow, counting the ticks of the rain against the glass, begging my mind for just ten seconds of quiet. But the second I feel my muscles slacken, a soundless, electric shock races up my spine and my eyes fly open. My heart slams against my ribs, convinced it heard a creak, a shift, a footstep. It never did. The house is deadly quiet inside. Too quiet. Not sleepy, not peaceful but dead. Dead with the ghosts of my life.

  The wind and the rain, the creaks and moans of the house and the lonely call of a cello are the only sounds. Each drop of rain is a cold, wet explosion against my window; each a tick on a clock that has stopped telling me what time it is, but keeps measuring my misery. It must be hours I’ve lain here. The sticky-sweet smell is fighting back, drifting on the turbulent air, piercing the barrier that separates me from the house of decay. It’s sickening. I try to forget the metallic sting of the 'Snap' at the back of my throat, but it’s impossible to ignore the knowledge of what is happening, what the decay is doing, just on the other side of that closed door.

  Why now? After all these days, why now?

  The night is an immense black wave that refuses to break. Every nerve in my body is screaming for darkness and rest, but a raw, ragged terror holds me in a vice grip. I don't feel awake. I feel like an empty jar left out in the storm, waiting to be filled with cold water, a small, pitiful shell. I don't blink. I don't move. I just listen to the wind, wait in vain for the rain to stop, and know that no matter how hard I try, my body simply won't let me rest.

  Then I press my face into my duvet, clasping Mom’s necklace, pulling Buttermilk’s soft, warm little body close to me beneath the covers. “Mom.” I whisper her name into the fabric. I don’t have the energy to cry. But the tears are already there, hot and useless. It hurts so much and I’m so tired I can barely breathe but still I can’t sleep. So I cry. I cry for me, for Tim, for Mom… because she is right there and yet she’s gone. I cry because I’m here, paralyzed, unable to move a muscle, and I will never, ever see her again.

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