Chapter Text
It’s getting harder to tell the days apart. Monday bleeds into Thursday, then spills out into something that might be Sunday, but I can’t be sure. What's the difference when even the sun wants you dead? The light through the blinds is always the same… hot and angry, like it’s been awake longer than me. Even being anywhere near it makes me start sweating. I keep hearing things that aren’t there. The skitter of roaches somewhere under the fridge. The hum of the compressor swelling and dipping like it’s breathing. I’m certain that my ice cube maker is broken, I'll get it fixed sometime—sometime after whatever's going on ends…
Sometimes, if I sit too long in the quiet, I start imagining there’s someone else in the house. I used to think being alone was quiet. But it isn’t. It’s the constant hum of the lights overhead, the groan of the pipes. It’s the sound of the world pretending to be alive when I know better.
A shift in the floorboards, a sigh just past my ear.
But there isn’t. There can’t be. I don’t let anyone in despite my neighbor insisting that I should. I can’t stand the sight of another person standing where they don’t belong…smiling, talking, leaving fingerprints on glass that isn’t meant to be touched. Especially if she's not here anymore. So I keep the doors locked. Keep the air still. Keep pretending I don’t notice the loneliness chewing through the drywall. Maybe tomorrow will feel different. Maybe tomorrow will feel like a day at all. The air feels thick here. It clings to my skin, heavy with dust and something I can’t name. Every room smells faintly of cold metal and lemon cleaner, like I’ve tried too hard to erase something that used to live here.
It’s strange, the way I’ve come to prefer the idea of things over the real thing. Touch without touching. Want without risk. Back when the world was normal, I used to think that was broken somehow—like there was something missing in me. My wife used to laugh about it, I was made for long-distance affection.
She stopped laughing near the end. Since then, I’ve kept everything imagined. Cleaner that way.
No fingerprints. No warmth that fades. It’s not that I don’t feel anything—it’s that feeling has teeth now. Every emotion comes sharpened. The quiet makes it worse; it gives the memories room to echo.
So I stay in my head. Safer there.
I replay the idea of closeness, like a movie I’ve seen too many times, soft and colorless. Maybe that’s why I live like this—moving through the house like a ghost rehearsing being alive.
—ᓚᘏᗢ–
Night again.
It always sneaks up on me, quiet and shapeless. The clock on the wall doesn’t tick anymore—he battery died months ago—but I can tell by the color of the light leaking around the curtains. The day’s dangerous glow fades into that bluish-grey nothing, and the house exhales like it’s finally safe to exist.
That’s when I get up.
The air’s cooler now, still humming from the day’s heat. I step over the warped floorboards that're closer to the windows and into the kitchen, where the hum of the fridge fills the silence like a heartbeat. There’s the faint smell of metal and dust—like the whole place has been sitting still for centuries, waiting for me to move again. I grab a glass, turn the faucet, and watch the water stutter out. It runs cloudy at first. Always does. I let it clear before I drink. It tastes like rust and old pipes, but I don’t complain. Not out loud, anyway.
The walls creak softly as I make my way to the bathroom. The air tonight’s cold but thick, like it’s been sweating. Every breath feels like it’s been recycled a thousand times through the same four rooms. My skin sticks to the fabric of the chair as I push myself up and make my way to the bathroom. The tiles are freezing under my feet. I twist the faucet and let the shower cough out a few spurts before it steadies. The water comes out cold—always cold. I don’t mind. It keeps me grounded. Keeps the sweat off. Steam doesn’t build up anymore; it’s too damp for that. Instead, everything just stays clammy, slick with humidity. I stand under the stream, watching the water trail down my arms, over the small scar on my wrist, across skin that looks paler in the low light. The kind of pale you get from never seeing the sun again. I clean where it matters, beneath my arms, between my legs and my face. I… try to ignore the thing dangling between my legs. I haven't indulged in myself for what feels like ages now.
When I’m done, I drag a towel across my face and catch my reflection in the mirror. The glass is a little dirty, streaked where my fingers brushed it clean. I stare at myself longer than I should. There’s a small nick on my chin from where I cut myself shaving last month—though “shaving” is generous. The stubble’s grown back thin, patchy in places. I can’t remember when I last bothered trying to look clean. The idea feels… foreign now. Like it belonged to another version of me that had somewhere to be, someone to see. My eyes look sunken. Tired. The kind of tiredness that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from existing too long in the same air.
I pull on a shirt, soft, frayed at the collar. I don't care enough to put on a pair of pants… It's not like anyone's in the house. Afterwards, I leave the bathroom light on. It’s easier that way; The dark gets heavy if I let it spread too far. The fridge hums louder when I open it, as if offended by the light. I grab a beer and close the door, letting the glow die again. The hiss of the can opening is sharp, clean—Almost pleasant. I take a drink and wander back to my room. I sit on the bed and watch the shapes crawl across the ceiling. It’s strange... I can’t remember the last time I saw the day's sky without it trying to kill me. Or when I last saw another person up close. Maybe that’s for the best. I take another slow sip of beer. The house creaks softly, like it’s listening. Sometimes, I imagine the earth still turning. That people out there are still surviving. That someone might find me one day.
Then I hear the faint, familiar sound again—the skitter, the breath between walls—and I remember:There’s no one here. Not anymore. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something’s waiting for me to forget that.
The can’s half-empty when I finally set it down on the nightstand. The fizz has long since died, leaving that metallic aftertaste clinging to my tongue. Its alcohol concentration has to be high with the way it makes me feel… No wonder I always go to bed so soon after drinking. Either that, or I really am a lightweight. I shift closer to the window. It’s to the right of my bed—has been since before the flare. Back then, it used to catch the morning light, warm and golden. Now the curtains are pulled together, only a thin slit letting a sliver of moonlight into my room. I want to open it… but I shouldn’t. The sun’s long gone, but habit keeps me cautious. I pull the edge back anyway. The night greets me with a kind of silence that feels too deep to be real. Grass has grown wild through the hills… shimmering faintly in the faint lunar glow. And the sky—God, the sky looks wrong. It’s beautiful, but wrong. No house lights left to drown it out. No planes, no satellites, no noise. Just this vast sweep of silver-black with stars so sharp they almost hurt to look at. They don’t twinkle anymore. They burn steady, white and cold, like watchful eyes.
Sometimes I think the flare did something to the air. Made everything too clear. Too close. The stars feel like they’re leaning in, listening. I rest my forehead against the glass. It’s not that cold… but colder than the shower was. My reflection stares back faintly, a ghost overlaying the outside world. I can still see that nick on my chin, still see the hollow shape of my face floating there among the stars. And I wonder, not for the first time, how much of this is my fault. Not personally, but… human fault. We reached too far, burned too bright, and now the world glows in our absence. I close my eyes for a while, just listening. The hum of the fridge. The faint creak of wood settling. Somewhere far off, something shifts—a sound like dirt collapsing, faint and distant, but heavy. When I open my eyes again, one of the stars looks brighter than before.I tell myself it’s nothing. Just my eyes playing tricks on me. But I don’t move away from the window. Not yet. It feels nice against my flushed face. Whenever I drink, it clears my head—replacing whatever I was worried about with what I need.
Then my fingers twitch. Not from the cold. From *hunger*. That low buzz in my gut isn't just alcohol anymore; it’s wanting something solid, real—something *warm*, even if all I’ve got is myself.
I lazily sit back on my bed, fumbling with my underwear… It's been ages since I actually touched myself properly. My palm presses into the soft skin there, rubbing circles… My dick perks up with interest, it doesn't take me a lot when I'm drunk like this. I lean back, fishing my length out of my underwear. The tip is red, wet at the top from being ignored for so long. I spit in my hand, enveloping it around my dick. My head tilts back, a shaky sigh leaving my lips… The first sound I've made in days. It's almost pathetic that it's that exact type of sound. I ignore that context and continue touching myself. Sweat runs up my back, making my skin sweaty there.
My hand tightens around myself, my eyes fluttering as I do. It feels good… different from how I usually feel while I'm drunk. The rhythm’s familiar. The creak of the bedsprings, the soft hum of the fridge in the next room, the faint rustle of fabric — a heartbeat in an otherwise silent house. It’s almost grounding. Comforting, in a weird way.
My hand moves without thought — a small, human thing, a reminder that I can still feel something in this dead world. I can feel my mind drift off to something else… The soft feeling of skin beneath my fingers. Or the pillowy bounce of a breast. Moments like this really make me think of what I used to have.
My hips shivered as I quickened my hand… I tried my best to stay put, letting my hand handle all the work. My other hand finds its way to my mouth, my eyes pressed real gentle-like. It runs over my chapped lips, eventually pressing in to rub at my tongue. I let out a soft whimper as I push against my soft palette. I'm… I'm getting close—And then, mid-breath —something shifts. Not inside. Outside.
It’s faint… just the shadow of motion across the window, cutting through the silver-blue of the moonlight leaking in through my open window. My eyes open. The rhythm stops. At first, I tell myself it’s nothing. Wind, maybe. A branch. A trick of my own reflection. I hold still, barely breathing.
Then I see it again… At first, I didn't know what I'm looking at… A figure—not clear, not solid, just darker than the dark—standing at the window. Too still. Too tall. The faint outline of a face presses close to the glass, pale and unblinking. No light catches in its eyes. There’s just… presence. Every muscle in my body locks. I can feel the air thicken, cold and wet against my skin. The house hums quietly, pretending it doesn’t notice. For a moment, I can’t move. Can’t even think. Just stare. Then, the thing—whatever it is—tilts its head..m and my breath stops before I can even tell it to.
Oh.
Oh my fucking God.
The outline presses right up against the glass, shoulders hunched, neck bent at a sick angle to fit. The face is wrong. Stretched, smiling too wide, teeth too many. And it’s looking right at me. I stop breathing. Every muscle goes rigid. I can hear my heartbeat thudding in my ears so loud it’s almost mechanical. I don’t move, don’t even blink, because some animal part of me believes that if I stay perfectly still, it can’t see me. The figure tilts its head. Slowly. That awful smile never wavers. For a second, it feels like the whole world is waiting—for me to flinch, for it to move, for something to break the silence.
Then the fridge clicks off again. The hum dies. And the glass fogs—just once—like something exhaled on the other side.