[Dis]Connected

by Michelle Halket

  “N—nothing,” she said between laughs. “It’s just that—” She finally sat up and faced me. “You went on this dramatic, heartfelt, graveyard confessional, and ended it with ‘Hey Annabel, do you wanna, like, be a thing?’”

  “You know what I mean!” I retorted half-heartedly.

  She laughed again.

  “Yes, Lee, I’d love to be a thing.”

  I smiled and slid my hands toward hers. She smiled back, and wove her fingers between mine. We both leaned in, and kissed underneath the starlight.

  During another night of drinking a few weeks later, I posed an even bigger question. “What do you think about moving in together?”

  Annabel looked as if she had to stop herself from spitting her drink back into her glass. “As in, the two of us, living in the same place … together?”

  I scratched the back of my head. “Well … yeah. The lease on my apartment is running out in a couple months and I haven’t signed a new one yet. I thought that maybe … if you were into it, of course, we could get a place together.”

  She looked into her cup and swirled the whiskey around a few times.

  “It’s just that … I signed a new lease on my own apartment last month so I’m locked in for at least another year.”

  “I could always move in with you,” I said with an exaggerated shrug. I figured if she said no, I’d tell her I was kidding.

  She swirled her drink around a few more times, and then downed it.

  “Okay.”

  My head quirked. “Okay?”

  “Okay, you can move in.”

  “Really? You mean it?”

  “I said it, didn’t I?”

  I laughed.

  She laughed.

  We drank.

  We went to our new home.

  For a few weeks, things were nothing short of amazing. Moving in to her apartment was an adventure in itself. Annabel and I walked hand in hand through my entire history as we packed my belongings into boxes. We turned unpacking into another excuse to drink, making the task of finding a place for my stuff within her stuff less of a chore and more of a game. Once I was settled in, I tried to wow her with my own kitchen skills by having dinner ready for her when she got home from work, though I suspect she wasn’t as impressed as I had hoped she’d be. Just having someone to kiss goodnight and fall asleep with, someone to wake up beside and catch the way the sunrise dances on her face, someone to have a cup of coffee with before we head off to work, was something I wouldn’t trade for anything in this mortal world.

  Somewhere, somehow, though, things shifted. Annabel started staying at work later, sometimes hours past her shift, and as soon as she’d get home, she’d go directly to the shower. When I confronted her about her late hours, she simply stated that she was the executive chef, and that sometimes that meant working late. I understood as much, but around the same time, she also started going out with her “friends” every couple of nights, friends I hadn’t so much as heard of until the last few weeks.

  One day, Annabel stepped outside to take some garbage to the dumpster, and her phone lit up with incoming texts. The urge to check them quickly consumed me. I tried to suppress it, but it seized control of my body and before I knew it, I was reaching for her phone. As my fingertips grazed the edge of it, Annabel’s tailless white cat hissed at me from underneath the table, sending me back with a startled jolt.

  “Shoo,” I said, waving her away. The cat spat at me and ran off to the bedroom.

  I reached for the phone again, but that distraction was all it took to eat up the little time I had, because as soon as I had it in my hand, Annabel came through the door.

  “And just what the fuck are you doing?”

  “You had a bunch of text messages coming in.”

  “So you decided to read them?”

  “No, I just thought—”

  “You just thought what?”

  “Why are you getting mad at me? You’re the one who’s never home. You’re the one who’s always going out with friends.” I held my fingers up in air quotes. “Is this your ‘friend’ here? Hmm? What’s his name?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. There are so many things wrong with what you’ve just said to me I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Why don’t you start with the truth?”

  Annabel didn’t say anything. She just stood there, staring at me.

  “Annabel, I—”

  “Stop. Just … stop.”

  She walked over to me and ripped her phone out of my hands.

  “Annabel, I’m sorry.”

  “I said stop. Leave me alone.”

  She walked into our bedroom and slammed the door.

  This was only the beginning of a cycle we’d eventually become caught up in. We’d be fine one day, and at each other’s throats the next. The magic that was once between us was gone, and soon, we began just to tolerate each other. Our relationship was growing stale and bitter, like a cup of coffee left sitting out on the counter, the cream separating, souring at the top of the cup. Sure, you could stir the two parts back together and stick it in the microwave for a few seconds, but that didn’t make the coffee palatable. It only made it easier to choke down, and at some point, you get tired of simply choking down bad coffee. That isn’t to say that every day was nightmarish. Sometimes, we’d go through brief periods of happiness, usually when we were drinking. We’d grow nostalgic for how things used to be and we’d try to recapture that spark, but every time, the spark would eventually fizzle out, once again leaving us in the dark.

  Everything came to a head one night during one of these periods of happiness. We were snuggled underneath the fleece that was usually draped over the couch, one of my arms around her shoulders, the other holding my third drink of the night. I was flipping through the channels, trying to find a good movie for us to watch, when Annabel’s text tone went off. My attention immediately snapped from the TV to her phone. I tried to catch a glimpse of who had texted her, but the screen was just out of my periphery.

  “Another star has fallen,” a voice from the TV began. Annabel shifted in my arm, and I quickly turned my attention back to the TV, realizing I had stopped on a news channel by accident. “Award-winning director Bryce Hunter is the latest victim in a string of cult-like killings that seem to be targeting prominent figures accused of sexual misconduct.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I set the remote down on the arm of the couch and ran my fingers through my hair. “Whatever happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

  Annabel tensed. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m just saying, death is a pretty high price to pay for something you’ve only been accused of.”

  “Well, maybe if society didn’t regularly put the blame on victims for their own assault while giving their abusers a pass, things wouldn’t have gotten to this point.”

  I was stunned into silence, but only briefly.

  “Are you serious right now? Are you really trying to justify homicide?”

  “Do I think what’s happening is how things should be handled? Of course not. But what do you expect? The justice system has failed. Rape cases rarely make it to trial, and when they do, the survivor is forced to relive their trauma in front of the courtroom while having their story picked apart, only for their attacker to go free. It’s fucked up.”

  I stood up. “I can’t listen to this anymore, Annabel. People are dying, and you’re spouting off statistics you found on Google. And for what? Because someone got drunk, had sex, and regretted it the next morning?”

  Annabel flinched. “Fuck you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Annabel stood up and looked down at her phone. She typed something and then slid it into her back pocket. “I said ‘fuck you.’”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “Fuck you, Lee. You know what? I’m tired of pretending anything about this relationship is normal. I’m tired of pretending I’m okay. You want to know where I’ve been going every
couple of days? Who my friends are? I’ve been meeting with this group of survivors, six of the strongest individuals I have ever had the honor of knowing, and they’ve helped me realize something. They helped me realize what happened that night we met at the bar for the first time. And you have the nerve to talk to me about drinking too much and regretting it the next morning?” She jabbed her finger into my chest twice. “Fuck. You.”

  Anger coursed through my veins. Did she really think I was just going to sit there and let her talk to me like that? Just what the fuck was she implying?

  “What are you trying to say, Annabel? Huh? That I did something to you that you didn’t want? Didn’t ask for? Give me a fucking break.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to say.” The jabbing was getting harder. “Deep down, you know what you did to me, even if you refuse to admit it. I’m just sorry it took me so long to realize it myself.”

  I swatted her hand away. “Don’t touch me.” I clenched my fists, trying to restrain the fire that singed every nerve in my body.

  “What’s wrong, Lee?” She pushed at my chest. “Can’t handle the truth?” She pushed me again.

  “I said don’t touch me!” I yelled as I shoved Annabel back away from me.

  Except … I shoved her too hard, and she fell back, and as she fell, her skull cracked against the corner of the coffee table. I froze, waiting for her to get up.

  She didn’t.

  “Shit.” I raked my fingernails across my scalp. “Shitshitshit.”

  Blood trickled down her face from the side of her head, and my heart slammed against my ribcage. I looked around the apartment frantically, searching for something but unsure of what it was I was searching for. Sweat oozed down from my temples. I thought to check for a pulse. I held my breath as I placed two fingers on her jugular. I exhaled. She was still alive.

  But for how long? How bad was the wound? What would happen if she died? What would happen if she survived?

  That is how I ended up here, racing down the highway in a torrential downpour, with Annabel’s body, alive or otherwise, in the trunk of my car. I never meant to hurt her—I swear that with every fiber of my being, but I cannot let things go on like this any longer. This is not how things were supposed to be. We were supposed to be happy, our love eternal. Did she really believe me to be such a monster?

  “Annabel!” I call out, hoping she can hear me. If I was such a monster, would I be doing this? “Annabel, I’m going to take you there!” I press the gas pedal down all the way and plow through the “BRIDGE OUT” sign. The needle on the speedometer passes 100 MPH, and I smile softly as a tear escapes, rolling down my cheek. “I’m going to take you to where the sea meets the sky, just like you wanted!”

  As if on cue, the car flies off the last remnants of the road, and time seemingly stands still. This is how it has to be. There is no future left for us in this lifetime, but if I cannot have her, nobody can. Annabel and I will be together for the rest of eternity, and all the gods, even Hera and Zeus themselves, will envy us.

  With a flash of lightning, time seems to catch up with us, and the car begins to plummet, crashing into the water below.

  I wake up.

  It’s dark.

  I’m cold.

  There is no sound.

  This must be what death is.

  A vast

  nothingness.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  A spotlight shines down from above,

  as if Heaven has opened up to claim me.

  I look around, but everything else is still black.

  I look down.

  I’m in a chair.

  I try to move.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  My arms are tied behind me.

  My feet are tied to the chair’s legs.

  I try to scream but my mouth is taped shut.

  A door opens in the distance.

  Shadows fill the doorway.

  Footsteps.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  Drip.

  I fight against the restraints, jerking every which way.

  A bead of cold sweat trickles down my forehead.

  D R I P.

  D R I P.

  D R I P.

  I fight harder. I try to scream, but the shadows grow closer. Seven unholy figures circle me, standing at the edge of the spotlight, their bodies covered in hooded black cloaks, and their faces … Oh, their faces! Black and beaked with glassy, mechanical eyes. I can feel the blood pulsing in my ears, my heart slamming against my ribcage—it, too, trying to break free.

  The figures remain motionless. I drop my head, and tears spill from my eyes as I begin sobbing.

  A hand takes me by the jaw and forces my head up.

  I open my eyes.

  One of them is staring down its beaked face at me, as if waiting for an explanation.

  I don’t try to speak.

  I don’t try to move.

  I close my eyes, and I am struck across the face with a sickening thud. My cheek is on fire as my tears trail downward.

  The monster rips the tape off my mouth, and I let out a scream. I’m struck across the face again.

  “What do you want from me?” I sob.

  There’s no answer.

  “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!” I scream at them, tears falling from my jaw to my thighs.

  “You are here,” the one before me begins in a mangled, mechanical gurgle, “to repent for your sins.”

  “What … what sins?”

  The demon brings the back of its hand across my face for the third time.

  A metallic taste pools inside my mouth.

  I turn my head to the side and spit on the ground.

  Blood.

  A second robed creature steps forward and speaks with a voice that sounds like gears grinding against one another. “You dare ask ‘what sins’? As if you don’t know what you’ve done?”

  A third steps forward.

  “For far too long, men have walked this earth and done as they’ve pleased. They help themselves to whatever it is they want, as if everything in existence is owed to them. Then, they have the nerve to write our stories, rewrite history, and change the narrative so as to paint themselves in a better light. We will no longer stand for such behavior. All men will be held accountable for their atrocities.”

  “Please …” I plead. “Please, God. Whatever I’ve done, I’m—I’m sorry! I’m a good man … I swear I’m a good man!”

  I’m backhanded for the fourth time with more force than the last three combined.

  The second and third figures step away, as the first tips its head back and makes a noise that sounds like an electric razor buzzing over telephone static. Laughter?

  “‘Good man’?” it asks, before pulling back its hood.

  Long black hair spills over its shoulders.

  “There are no good men.” It reaches behind its head and loosens the strap that holds its mask in place.

  “And there are no gods to save you.” It lowers its avian facade to reveal the blood-encrusted face lying beneath.

  “Because we’ve killed them all,” says Annabel.

  Author’s Note: As the theme of this anthology suggests, this story was inspired by Nikita Gill’s poem, “Gods and Mortals,” but it was also not-so-subtly inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s poem, “Annabel Lee.” I think it’s interesting to note, with the theme of connection in mind, that Edgar Allan Poe is not only one of my favorite authors, but one of Nikita’s, as well, which is why I thought using this story as a way to pay homage to Poe and his work would be very fitting for this anthology. Thanks for reading.

  —Cyrus

  No Turning Back

  CYRUS PARKER

  and i wonder

  just where it was

  i went wrong,

  for i had a map that led me

  straight to the city of light.

  i trekked for

  40 days and 40 night
s,

  the promised land

  within my reach,

  but when i got there,

  there were no lights,

  there was no utopian life—

  just a desolate town

  haunted by the ghosts

  of everything

  that should’ve been,

  but will never be.

  Terra Firma

  SARA BOND

  THIS DAY DOES NOT SPEAK TO ME. SHE IS cold. Unsettled. Unremorseful. The sun appropriately hides behind the grey that has met us this morning. The silence that weaves itself through our group is unnerving. This group of twenty-nine has travelled weeks by bicycle and by foot to reach this place, with the hope of a new world. But there is no new world to be found here, just dry remnants of what once was—Before.

  Hollis, dark, burly, and bearded, stands in the center of the hole he has spent a good portion of the night digging. The pain on his face is hidden behind grime and sweat. Wedge’s body is still where we left it, wrapped in an old sheet. He was seventeen.

  The trek to the City of Light has brought us loss and suffering. But where else were we to go? We were told it was a Savior City for the Displaced. We were told of a utopian life that carried on the way it was Before. But there’s no one here, nothing left but ash. Barely standing buildings line the main street in this Old West town hidden in a valley between high white mountaintops. What did we stumble upon? What have we found?

  “Nell!” My attention is pulled back to Hollis. “We can’t farm here. This is desert. Death. Nothing can be grown here. There is no life.”

  “What if we tried? Couldn’t we?” I plead.

  “No. It’s not possible and we’ll starve ourselves trying.”

  I’m devastated, hearing the truth said out loud. I know he is right, but I’m angry at how quickly Hollis is giving up. I brush my satchel with my hand. Life does exist here. I know it does.

  Hollis grips my forearm, and I pull him from the hole. He nods to me. “I wonder who’ll dig my grave.”