Soma's Reflection

Genre: Sci-Fi / Substack Zone

The Twilight Zone redefined storytelling, drawing audiences into the unimaginable. Now, 66 years later, top writers, artists, and musicians are stepping into its eerie glow with a fresh twist. Ready to see where they’ll take you?

Liz Zimmers | Edith Bow | Sean Archer | Bryan Pirolli | Andy Futuro | CB Mason | John Ward | NJ | Hanna Delaney | William Pauley III | Jason Thompson | Nolan Green | Shaina Read | J. Curtis | Honeygloom | Stephen Duffy | K.C. Knouse | Michele Bardsley | Bob Graham | Annie Hendrix | Clancy Steadwell | Jon T | Sean Thomas McDonnell | Miguel S. | A.P Murphy | Lisa Kuznak | Bridget Riley | EJ Trask | Shane Bzdok | Adam Rockwell | Will Boucher

[8AM] 

Neon lights thrum around my head, slow and steady. Beeping soothes my insides, there’s a tingling sensation as I open my eyes to the sounds of gentle birds chirping. Colors of pink, orange and white reminded me of sorbet in my childhood summer. Memories of childhood faces washed with bright white teeth and curly hair bouncing in the sand. My head rests inside a helmet used to promote brain activity. Everyone at this private university gets one. There's three lights that beam and glow over your forehead and wires behind your backside connected to the wall. I press the button and it unlatches with steam, its own in-house salon. We are the rich, our gadgets, and newest modern technologies beep sonically. 

When I applied, the flier said it kept students rested during their studies. I don’t mind it most days even when the head apparatus feels weird. My books have been transferred to tablets, hard drives with cute pink fonts over plastic. I haven't touched a book in ages, and I hardly remember what it feels like in my hands. I barely remember my parents' faces, if they didn't keep sending postcards from abroad. 

In five minutes, I'll pick up my cell phone and start my morning face ritual. All the students have different routines which is what I love about this university. "Create your brand, create your life."

There have been instant success stories for years, and the university is crowded with people hidden behind their mirrors. It's anonymous for safety purposes, and that's why each of us has a ward of security guards. They have these cut out Santa Cruz boyish men look to them. Sometimes, their superhuman strength scares me. I can feel the weight of their hands on my lower back digging into my spine. In their eyes, I see something inhuman, I suppose that's what happens when you're not me. 

The timer goes off in five minutes. "Your future husband awaits." I changed the AI to a Slavic accent because I've never met a real one. My nails glide on the program, loading the stream of perfectly curated faces. We were chosen because we were godlike of our generation. Monologues of our lives like serialized poetry about the now and the future. My new current obsession pops into my feed Dennis666xo, he greets everyone with his brand, "Will you be my alien romance?" 

The first feature I notice is how green his eyes are when he first wakes up. They fade to a lighter color as time goes on. People joke that he's a lady killer with his high cheekbones and dark brown hair. I see the night sky in his face. I see something curious about his character that is less acting and more real. My fingers sweat over the heart button as hearts fill his screen live. I taste the saltwater in my mouth when I imagine him in my presence. He picks from a raffle and sends hearts to random women on display. My name has never been picked. 

Outside my window are trees that never change. It's green on this side of the planet, year round. We pay for it with our parents' money. I heard from a friend that it's a better life because we're not in the cemented kingdoms. It's where the under one million kids live. I can't imagine a life where the color pink doesn't exist. 

Dennis666xo picks a girl named WaifuUwU99, and sends her a DM. My heart drops, and I close the app in a second of rage. Nauseous, my legs wobble as I stand leaving my phone on the hardwood floor. The ground beneath my feet swirls, as I stumble to the bathroom. My mirror frames are all gold with pearls from the sea. 

Dragging out my pink lipstick from the drawer, I write in cursive on the mirror, “I am perfect, I am the chosen, and when he's ready he'll choose me.” Pressing my hands into my face, I enjoy the feeling of being touched. For a second, I forget where I am. With ease, I move my hands away from my face, I smile alone. He's a loser if he doesn't want me in the end. 

My palms stop sweating as I prepare for my morning ritual. "Sunny in the Mornings." After my name Sunshine, my golden locks glow under the pale fluorescent lighting. Opening up my wardrobe my clothes are replaced by maids when I sleep. They make sure to follow the first trends or to read my notes before bed. We're trend starters. That's why we will always win. 

There's a girl who cannot see herself when she looks into the mirror. No one likes to see their imperfections looking back at them. In the future, there's a world without poverty, a world of perfection, a world hidden in plain sight.

A message clicks in my inbox on the right. (1) Notification. I have already put makeup on my face, and started the day. My heart sways, not knowing whether it's a bot or someone I care about enough to respond to at this moment. I see the message request link from Dennis666xo, and see his messages. My fingers tingle with perspiration until I read them. Is this a joke?

[Dennis666xo] Have you ever noticed how the sky never changes? Have you seen the metal on the sides? Are we trapped in a globe? If you send me an unfiltered photo, I'll tell you my deepest secret. 
[SunnysideMorning] Hi, have you been hacked? 
[Dennis666xo] Look up during your morning walk, but adjust your mirror. Tell me what you see.
[SunnysideMorning] That's a high demand for someone you've never talked to. You're asking me to do something for you. Why would I?
[Dennis666xo] Do you want to go on a date with me or not?
[SunnysideMorning] Okay, say the sky looks weird, then what?
[Dennis666xo] Tell me by 8 pm, and I'll tell you my deepest secret. 
[SunnysideMorning] and the date?
[Dennis666xo] Right, I need that unfiltered photo first. Talk to you later. 

Unclicking the app, I set it to the side. My world felt as though it was spinning. While, it's true I had idealistic obsessions about him. Why would he pick me to message some weird obscure vague shit to? My mouth was dry and I pulled back the curtains to look at the greenery, trying to look at the sun. Instead, I was blinded by its hot glows. There was nothing weird from the third floor. How would I find something from the street? He has to be fucking with me. There is no way that the sky is projected. And why would it be? We're rich, we don't belong behind a glass box. 

Putting the black covers over my face where you can only see my eyes was already excessive. Security guards wait outside your door and you place a gigantic mirror around the first half of your body. While, the backside of your body is forced by the security guards who rest their hands guiding you. I admit, it's the extreme part of the day. And it's hard to see with the reflection of the mirror, but for the most part. Most of us can't see shit during the 15 to 20 minute walk anyhow. You don't even need to go outside when most of our routines are behind a screen. 

Sure, Dennis. I'll play your little fucked up game and call you a fraud. I hate bullies, and I hate liars. If you become another disappointment, that's one check off for me. His green eyes burn into my face in memory. I'll have to position the mirror differently so it doesn't reflect with the sky as much. His smile curls ribbons around your finger. You can demand the security guards who work for you. After all, they live to serve you. Tell them you're not feeling well. Convince them they're stupid to question your logic. 

[9AM] 

Three knocks hit your door, one of the security guards asks if I'm ready for my morning walk. Of course, I am. Pretend you're running late, that you feel ill, that you've forgotten your duty. My voice pulls from my gut, a high pitched submissive linger that calms their nerves at the other end. Angling the mirror I tilt it slightly to the right, and would continue this process inch by inch as I walked around the park. Feigning ignorance at their protests, perhaps tripping in the middle of it. Tracing the lines of his face before I looked past him at the corners of our buildings. Rules don't belong to me. An imperfect morning is not weird enough for my generation. It's not earth shattering to have a bad morning. 

I'm welcomed by the eyes of the security guards, they have gentle wrinkles in their eyes. They're probably bottom feeders in their thirties. We're only greeted by ungroomed eyebrows, so they have to be dirt poor. No one in their right mind would walk outside that confidently. 

"Yes, I'm ready for my morning walk." 

The truth is I never thought about talking with them. I am usually just spaced out and follow the pattern they put me on. The people we see on our mirror reflections are their projected brands. All their AI projections smile and wave at the direction of other mirrors with three lights that glow green on the right panel of the mirror. It's oval shaped and feels like cardboard, but the apparatus is actually rather thick. My breasts squished against the surface of it and it feels like a poorly made corset. The straps snug around my body keeping it similar to everyone else's profile. People walk in file, expressionless as they gather their bodies across the sidewalks and through the lawn. 

This is when I slightly readjust mine, and start speaking to them today. There has to be some other less ominous distraction. At the end of the day, Dennis will be wrong and it will cause a whole scandal. I'll make more money off his pain. 

"I don't think I'm feeling well today." I readjust slightly as I stumble turning to the upper left still feeling the glow against my skin. 

"We can take you to the infirmary and skip this whole walk." This is the first time I heard him speak, his words felt older like velvet untouched. I trip because his words alarm me and feel the mirror shatter beneath me as I hit the ground. Knees scrape against the cemented sidewalk. Slicing at my perfect round shaped caps. My body rolls somersaulting into fetal, backside to the ground, like a child being afraid to fall.  To my surprise, the glass shards are protected by this strong plastic film, so its pieces don't cut my body. I hear the chime of the shard glasses float in it, uncomfortably. The plastic outer layer is dented from the impact, but not enough to release the mess. 

Now, on my back I see parts of his bushy eyebrows and stare past him letting his face become blurry. There is gray brown plastic thick wiring all around behind the buildings. It feels like there's a latch where this world could open. Is this the globe? Parts of me wants to ask questions but the knot in my throat tells me otherwise. 

The sky and the clouds seem projected moving in an unearthly manner. One of the clouds to the far left was glitching, turning purple between the white. My face went pale and I looked to the ground ashamed. A knot forms in my stomach, and I think this bottom feeder is going to watch me puke. Shame for the knowledge, I am not supposed to know. It feels forbidden. My hands touch my face because of the confusion. What is that? Where are we? 

"I think I scraped-" 

The security guard is holding a syringe. It's waving like a toy around his fingers. There's no warmth in his eyes. 

"Don't worry this will take the pain away." 

He sets the needle in my neck, the cold liquid forming through my veins like a sticky slurp. I don't fight it. I want to forget. 

The clouds continue to glitch. 

His face fades from my eyes in slow motion. Everything turns black. The pain in my knees wash away into the oblivion of my dreams. I taste metal in the back of my throat. Lights off.

***

The world felt as though it was vibrating. Machine engines in my body. Slipping in and out of consciousness, my limbs weak and constrained. Seas of white tubes sticking out of my skin prickling at my blood. A drip with drugs in them, flashes of colors floated in the darkness. Dripping paint.

Squinting my eyes, I could see a glass room watching my body. Closing my eyes, I focused on the beeps growing louder. A drum beat filling the thoughts in my head. Buzzing in sorority of each other. My legs were spread on this chair. 

Tilting my head I felt the pressure of the ventilator strapping my head tightly in place. Pulling in my wrists weakly, I found myself bound in a leather prison. 

Footsteps pounded outside the door. Relaxing my face, I pretended not to exist. The door handle creaked open with the scuffle of bodies heading towards me. 

"This is unusual for Sunshine. She never slips up." A woman's voice spoke, I could hear her clipboard from her nails gliding on it. I don't exist, they can't notice me. "All her blood work is normal. She's still fertile." 

"Has she taken interest in any of the boys yet?" A man spoke half interested in her answer. His voice was older than the security guards. I felt I was trapped in a film lost in time. 

My knees no longer hurt in this claustrophobic hellscape. Less focused on their words, fear coursed through my veins. There is nothing in this world that made this moment feel brave. Did they kidnap me? It felt wrong to be here. Strangers not worshiping me. Objectifying me. A day as a doll for them. 

"The watchers say she's interested in Dennis666xo. He's our oldest candidate." The woman said dryly and unimpressed. 

"We'll just have to follow genetics -"

"Dr. Samson, we're getting reading of her waking up. Should we increase the drugs?" A younger voice, assuming to be a nurse or an assistant. It was unclear. She cut the two others off. Her voice was filled with anxiety and dread. This spiked my adrenaline with nowhere to run. 

"These newer students are resistant to most of our medications. Aren't they? Well, load her up. Don't just stand there!" He yells at the other woman. 

Whirring gets louder and louder in my brain. As though I'm trapped inside an airplane engine. My body is made of metal. My body no longer feels real. The skin feels plastic. None of this should be real. The security guard said we were going to the infirmary. This is a nightmare. Why am I so afraid? Just open your eyes. I hear an older man's breath wheezing hot air on my face. I can't open my eyes. I can't force myself to see. 

Paint keeps dripping. The plops fall on my body forming a puddle at the center. Thickness you can't shake off, unreal. 

And that all too certain pain of the needle on my hand. 

[11AM] 

Liars. The world is full of lies. Don't believe them. That's what they want. 

My immediate thoughts are scattered. Body bolting upward to the sameness of my dorm. No tubes. No older voices. It's quiet. Turning to my side table, I find a note with scribbles of my fall and a box of unlabeled pills. There's cute pink stickers of animals and pink lips all over it. 

Groggy my head felt like jagged rocks tumbling in my brain. Shivering in a long shirt that didn't belong to me, I moved my hand for my phone. Automatic like a phantom limb. 

The helmet wasn't wrapped around my head and my hair felt like a mess. My hairs wiry sprigs smelt of hospital death stench. There was no memory of the people in that room. Just fuzzy pictures. 

Dropping my phone beside me, I let curiosity fill my brain. The securities note is in the same typography of all the letters I receive. Clicking my tongue on the roof of my mouth, I read about tripping and falling. They patched me up at the infirmary. No mention of doctors or their names. Take your pills two times a day. Once in the morning and once at night.

Picking up a pen, I start to scribble over the paper. It's thick like an advertisement that needs to be put behind plastic. 

Dr. Sam. 

Dr. Pham. 

Dr. Phantom. 

Dr. Samson. That's it. That's the one. Ripping up the discovery of the name, I tear it off the page. Hidden lore, shoved inside my bra. Nowhere for the maids. Couldn't risk them finding out what I know now. The clouds glitch. Our hospital is a leather prison. This can't be real. We're supposed to be some sort of VIPs. Disappointment drenched my consciousness. There were some things they couldn't take from me, and it was my wealth. My beauty, my determination. 

Hardly in recovery, my knees was wrapped in gauze. They didn't sting. I felt nothing other than the anger building up in my throat. How dare they treat me like a prisoner. They're bottom feeders. I don't belong to them. It doesn't feel safe to scream here. My hands start to shake, tears swelling up. It's the lack of control setting in. 

What have you done Dennis? What kind of game are we playing here? Cinema of colors float over the ground from the leftover drugs. It blends with my skin, drip, drip. The imaginary colors feel like shadows over my body. Fear lives on my neck and down my sides. Shivering, I pull the blanket of plush softness over my body. We're still alone. We still haven't earned our parents phone numbers. 

Cursing at myself from his righteousness. He knows this world and doesn't expose them. He's a fraud. Wishing for superhuman strength to crush the phone, I grip it pulling the app into view.

[SunnysideMorning] What the fuck is this place? I demand an answer.

He isn't online and doesn't respond for a few minutes. Instant gratification lives on the tongue. Its addictive pull sends me through a near blackout rage. Pay attention to me. Your life doesn't matter as much as me. My importance is made in gold. The clock ticks without a response. Its slow torturous throb in my chest. My self loathing crept up beneath the floorboards. It lives in my skin. It tells me that I'll fail. 

Standing up trying to set aside my failures, I begin digging for anything sharp. A weapon. There was no telling what would happen next. Paranoia plucks at my heartstrings. A box of the postcards is in the center of the makeup dresser, and I slide the golden box to my feet. This is not what I signed up for, my display was supposed to be glorious, an unyielding triumph.

Hundreds of thick portraits display my parents faces unaged, eerily back at me. Everywhere in existence abroad, every continent belongs to them. They use the same typography as the hospital's. I wonder if it's what they consider a business font. No ink. No marker or display of closeness. Promises of freedom to reign through the accomplishments of our lineage. Pride quotes when my spirit is broken. They never ask how far I've come or who I am going to be. How I feel when I conquer this brand for our family or how it's supposed to feel. It's cheap with wardrobes, makeup and ring lights. A lonely life caged, a prison in the future.

[Dennis666xo] So, you've seen that the sky is projected? It's creepy, isn't it? You ever wonder why?
[SunnysideMorning] Don't play with me boy, I'll destroy you. Now about that secret. I don't care about the date. I want to know the truth. 
[Dennis666xo] Your fire is endearing. 
[SunnysideMorning] Don't chastise me. What's the next step to get what I want?

[Dennis666xo] There's a SIM card near the volume, you need to pull it out and connect your phone to wifi. You only have thirty minutes before they catch you. If you notice on the screen you can't take non filtered photos. Everything is a projection with a filter. If you can get me a photo.
[SunnysideMorning] If I get you a photo. I want to know where you live. I want you to say your secret to my face. 
[Dennis666xo] Damn. Okay. I can trade that for you. It's only fair. 
[SunnysideMorning] Fine. You'll have your picture by 8. 

Click. There's pills that sit next to my bed labeled mood stabilizers. Ripping open the box, I shove four down my throat. Hands over the recent ones, I hold a handful. Down the hatch. This works better. My parents will pay for his funeral. 

A waterfall of paranoia washes over me. It's hard to imagine if they're even real, and that's the gut punch to the chest. The ground feels wet, and I start to laugh to myself out loud. Tingling tendrils spread like a disease from my chest cavity, an unruly anxiety. It doesn't wash off of me. And I throw the bottle of pink pills against the wall. They explode all over the bed. 

Prowling the room, I start looking for the faintest bit of hope. A bobby pin, a thumbtack, a tiny sharp thing. Pulling up the mattress, I start destroying the room. Smashing the laptop against the wall. Chunks of electricity crunch against the corners. They'll buy me a new one. None of this matters. Tears strain my eyes, but I'll get what I want. What I deserve. Throwing the mattress over the center table I stand disheveled and poised in my moments of rage. Running my hands over the hardwood everything is perfect until I feel one of them completely separated from the others. Just slightly ajar, with a slanted hole big enough to fit two fingers through it. Well, well. 

Lifting up the wooden block, I shove my hand into the darkness finding a sharp letter opener and a handful of letters. I crumble the pile of envelopes between my right fingers pulling them up. Throwing the remnants on my lap, I go for that letter opener. It's going to be useful later. Fingers tap the edge of the blade just light enough not to cut it. Slicing open the envelopes, I feel small moments of joy. 

Year 2040:
I've forgotten what it means to be my own person. Individuality is forbidden. This was a cursed future. It was all set up. Soon we'll have no names. 

Year 2040: 
Mysterious wonder, my friends begin to disappear. I don't know if they're dead or alive. I whisper their names before I sleep. 

Year 2041: 
This is a new pandemic, it blasts in sirens all around us. I wish I could melt underneath the floorboards. They're watching us, always. They'll never stop. 

Year 2045:
I am alive because I'm pretty. I am alive because I'm a trust fund kid. I haven't touched another human in years. They say this is only the beginning. Dreams made of steam. 

Dropping the last letter, I rip up the last line. 

Dreams made of steam. 

More lore that I can't even begin to comprehend. Picking up the scraps of letters without their envelopes, I drop them back into the darkness. Where they'll rot. Get wet with mildew. For the replacement of my room. There isn't a word to describe how I feel. 

Touching my phone, there's some sort of connection. A happiness that swells up inside. Opening the app to the camera, I stare back at the reflection of my poreless skin in awe. Perfection. It's why Dennis chose me, the weak would never survive. Switching to the school app, I see the bodies flood in. Statuesque high contrast faces staring into the lens at me, giving their full attention. When the world cannot touch you, this is all you need. 

My finger swipes at the filter button, but it doesn't pull up the settings format. I tap at it again, and it glows back to me in red. I move my hair out of my face, camera still blaring. Holding my finger down on the filter button annoyed at the loss of control, a message pulls up in the right corner. 

ACCESS DENIED

Setting my camera on the floor, I run to the mirror in the bathroom. The red glaring filter button is on the right side of the mirror. Greeted by the same face, my face or the thing who has my face appears. It waves back at me, smiling behind its AI projection. I put my fingers over my mouth, as though I'm about to vomit. The projection doesn't stop smiling, doesn't stop waving, it moves robotically cheering me on. Stop looking at me. I didn't ask you to judge me. It can't hear my thoughts, but I want the program to recognize my displeasure. Resentment at losing control, I decide I'm going to pry its pretty face off my screen. There can only be one of me. 

The letter opener rests on the floor next to my phone. Right. That picture Dennis wanted. Resting the phone on my palm, I twirl it in circles trying to find the little chip. And it's where he said it would be. Partially sticking out. Wanting to be free. 

Clip. Clip. The sim card falls at my feet and I quickly pull out my camera. Now, let's see what this loser has to say about my face. 

A person who I've never seen stares back at me. Clown makeup, over blushed, thick spider eyelashes, and lipstick over the shape of her lips, some kid with a crayon. Acne collects from the oil on her chin and high cheekbones, ugly imperfected scars. Her hair isn't bright or golden, it's dirty blond and flat. It looks like a corpse picked up from the streets. I'd leave her there. I would let her die there. 

“This can't be right.” My voice automates back to me on the camera. My limp hair swaying with my head shaking. 

It's a slow burn until it hits me all at once. This is me. This is my ugly face. Grabbing the letter opener, I start growling at the mirror in the bathroom. It's the AIs fault for making me believe I was somebody else. That I wasn't some monster. I'll be hated. Stabbing the mirror down the middle, I mumble, you'll die before the truth finds me out. Spider webs crack on the mirror splintering out of where the red light used to be. All lights disappear. Her AI imagery starts to glitch as she smiles. I don't need AI. It needs me. 

You're perfect, just as you are. It says before her face disappears. The shards fall off taking part of my sink building a monument for death. Still digging into the mirror I feel a hollow point. A wall where the mirror is supposed to cover. You don't even know what year it is. Heavy panting, you stab more violently just to make a hole where letters are seen through the lighting of the room. Cursive not typography. Someone else before you. Crying you drop the letter opener. Desperate for answers you grab parts of the shards cutting your fingers pulling back the layers. Blood and sweat, the work won't be for nothing. Makeup burns into my eyelids, melting into my holes. And there it is. A new layer. Artifacts that belonged to someone else are dusted on the bottom. Pocket makeup mirrors, red matte lipstick, and a blonde wig. The same hair I was led to believe I originally had. 

We will all die here. We will all die here. We will die. 

Smacking my lips together, tear stained face, reading the words twice. God damnit, I don't need your pity party right now. This does nothing for me. It's a waste of time. 

Turning on the faucet, I listen to the mirror pieces make chimes as it hits it. Closest towel next to me gets drenched. Regretfully, I wipe the makeup down from my face. Choking between my sniffles. It's the first time at the college, I felt clean. Makeup so caked on that it made a face looking back at me on the towel. Disgusting. This can't be real. This doesn't feel real. Turning over to the left of my sink, I vomit into the trash. Bile chemical chalk. It's what angels must feel when they speak to people like us. Everything feels torn with my heart on display. Makeup that used to be a living imprint of my past life. Holding my arms together, I hum to the trendy music playing in the reels. Video music monologues that live in my head. Cuts covered my arms and hands, I listened to the blood drip for ambience. It's moments like these that make you question your strength. My parents didn't sign up for my weakness. 

Remembering that bastard Dennis, I drag my feet to the phone. Holding up the camera like a convict under a million uni brat, I click a photo. If my face was more barren, I may still be beautiful. Defeated, I press send to Dennis666xo. Setting the phone on the floor, I peel open my wardrobe. Colorful baby pinks, satin, silk, velvet and mesh. In panic, I begin ripping the delicate fabric and stretching all of the garments to the ground. Destroy everything for this secret. Make it look like you're in danger. Someone else would have to be the hero. 

Notification (1) shows up on the screen from [Dennis666xo] I am on the top floor room 13, farthest to the right and the exit. Don't let Dr. Samsons goons catch you.

Damaged goods. You pick up the SIM card, shoving it back into place. If anyone stops me, they'll wish they hadn't. 

[1PM] 

My parents said we had good genetics and our lineage was built to survive all the fire and wars of men. The pain and bitterness from sucking the life of our enemies brought us riches. They lived, so that I could be who I am now. A story told in postcards for years like a Christmas Carol. Traditions that are worshiped before they're foundationally broken. You can’t help but question their reality. It would be easier to forget and give in. 

Finding a stray of scissors in my arts and crafts bag, I begin to clip away the dead hair between my tears. The hair is so dead, it might as well not even exist. Dry, brittle. Bleach gone wrong. You imagine Dennis caressing your face. Kissing your mouth. Giving you that date. You love him and you hate him. Soap opera for the modern era. You're still a virgin, but he didn't call you ugly. He gave directions to his place. He still wants you. 

In silence, I hear the whirring of the neon lights, its airship burning inside my head. Sniffles breaking up the mucus lodged in my throat. Dead hair itches my bare skin as it falls. 

Without Dennis, none of this would have happened. Who can say no to those beautiful green eyes? In the end, he chose me. I'll be the first to win over any other girl who favors him. I smile touching my chest, laughing imagining flower petals fall on my head. Congratulations, they say. All the envy in the world couldn't compare to this moment. 

In a daze, I come back to my problem. Alarmed by the static from my lips as I have bitten holes into them in my day dream state. Shards cover the floor, mosaics of my pain. There’s parts of me that want to die right here, but the anticipation is killing me. Rich girl turned criminal. The cost of love, I suppose. Pixie cut, but insane asylum. They had films about this type of hair. Cutting off the dead weight. Something’s gotta give.

“Miss Sunny? Hello?” A maid’s voice started from the doorway. Shit. It hasn’t even been five minutes. Damn bottom feeder bugs. My hand is still gripping the scissors. I won’t let them take Dennis, we’ve only just begun our journey.

A small dainty woman turns the corner, and I throw her into the wall. Scissors to the throat. “How long have you known?”

“What?” She’s huffing. “I just clean up the rooms.” Her eyes are darting to the mirror and to the side of the bed. Fabrics all over the ground. Her foot crunches on one of the shards. Nails on the chalkboard wreckage. Woe is me expression. Her eyes are older than the outfit. I notice the wrinkles behind her eyes. Age wilts like a flower that dies. 

“Hmph. I’ll have my parents pay for your funeral.” There’s something in me that can’t stop what happens next. I feel the sharpness of the scissors slice, but to my surprise her blood isn’t red. It’s blue. Teal blue. I pull the scissors out, in disbelief. Body shakes twice, and rolls over clunking to the floor. 

My fingers rub over the blood, and I smell it. Gasoline-ish. Kicking her body, it’s limp. She didn’t make any noise when she choked or screamed from the blood loss. Seems unrealistic. Staring at her body, I look at the clothes and decide that today I'll be a maid to escape. Her face is poreless, I hate her for being beautiful. French maid outfits. They've been out of fashion for centuries. Who comes up with these stupid decisions? 

Her eyes turned white, foggy. The way a doll looks when it sits funny on the shelf. She was real, but now she's not. Bet she costs under a half million. She probably ate all the micro plastics. That's how she stayed young. I try to smear her makeup, but nothing happens. It feels like a tattoo. Permanence in perfection. 

In one of the stories I read growing up, it was told if you questioned madness, there was no way you could be insane. This life is crazy, I am not crazy. My parents are going to get an earful when this shitshow is over. Clipping part of her hair out of curiosity, it feels plastic. I bite it. A wig. Figures. 

Stripping her was easy, her body was basically weightless. There was no fight to her. The clothes were heavier than her body. It didn't make sense. Ripping off her key card I tie the letter opener and scissors through the handles around my waist. It’s hidden underneath the curling frills. I put on my best fake bitch voice, and swing open the door. Good bye, old life. 

[2PM] 

According to the security guards, the area where Dennis was located was furthest to the right. You turn from where the brand name cut out humans walk around the outside, and hug the wall. There’s arches and tunnels with windows on the outside for personnel in the workforce. They didn’t suspect me because I refused to give them her pin card. I explained that I must’ve dropped it in Dennis’s compound. They cannot fault women’s absent mindedness. It’s a common trait for the weak. There’s a brand person who’s difficult. You know the guy. 

Dennis is the oldest brand name, they say. You’ll get used to his temper. All their eyes look like bruised blueberries. Dolls. Puppets shuffling around the space sucking in the air. You can't help but smile with them, flirting with their weakness. All people crave power; they want that validation. Touching their hands playfully, and rubbing their chest. A flick of the wrist in unison of their words never breaking character. Know your place and all the wiser for it. 

The air was harsh. I never noticed how it felt on my face or my lips without the mask. It was almost unbearable. My fingers touched the cobblestone tunnels, feeling the imprints of hands who used to live, people made this for the appearance of safety. People’s brands became their world’s where people would dine on take out and any dream they ever wanted. Materialism in the greatest fashion. Everyone got the same clothes, but it's how you created the imagery with them that made it different. I’ll still slurp up all their money, and leave this prison. They made me this way. It’s the consequence of their actions.

I stopped in front of the compound and pulled up the pin card over the security measure. Beeping red traveling through my ear holes past the fur, through the wax, a church bell gong in my brain. Vibrating. Taunting me. Laughing at me. I could feel the hotness in my cheeks forming from the cold and displeasure. Thinking about stabbing the letter opener straight through the device, but this isn’t like the movies. The door will be jammed and it will be worse. Turning to my left I notice a tall wall connected to the plastic latches. Easily forty feet. Its gray smooth surface had no edges to hold yourself up from to climb over and reach the latches. Three storm ship doors with sun wheel handles with extra security were created around the wall. Cement scraped high caliber. Touching it, you wonder how many people died making it. What is the world trying to keep out?

“You seem lost.” A voice with velvet that sent chills up my spine stood, breathing on my neck. “Sunny.”

Twisting my feet to face him, “What, you don’t like this cosplay? All the girls are doing it.” I fall my fingers over his neck. His hands grab my wrists violently. Thick rope twisting. It burns when he touches me. He’s not going to break my character after all I went through, he’s a bootlicker bitch for Dr. Samson. Bet no one pays him enough to give a shit. In his eyes are a mixture of warmth and coldness, a steam bath to lay inside of and wilt.

“What’s your game? What do you think you’re doing out here?”

Hands screw shaped on my wrists pulling them in opposite directions. “Ow, you’re hurting me. I don’t think that’s very nice.”

“I trailed you here. You’ve made a mess. I think Dr. Samson is going to have to punish you for it.” 

“Don’t you love me? I see the way you look at me. If we’re in this alleyway. No one can find us. I wanted you to find me. I wanted you to worship me.” 

I’ll dig up every unmarked grave. He takes off his mask, blue eyes in the spring and brown scruffy hair with specks of silver lined through it. I’ll burn right through you. He drops his hands on my wrists and grabs my lower back pulling me to him. I touch his face, his voice liquid velvet. The hotness of his mouth sends my body serpentizing. Close the curtains and let this prince dance. Rugged hands with callus, chipped around his fingers. He mumbles about his invitation, but all I feel is his mouth on the bottom of my chin and lips. Fingers with curiosity, minds of their own trail his chest and back finding incisions. Mounds of poorly made stitches covering his body like tattoos. Scars. Imprints. Frankenhellish compartmentalizations. 

I dangle my fingers over the glass medicinal syringes, and touch its poison. Adrenaline rushing in as my legs are now straddling him against the building wall. Voice husky with carnal desire murmurs through my bare skin. Something changes in me, as I let him have parts of me, the fruits of my garden, the places where angels weep blood, and the shift for his death. I bite into his bottom lip letting just enough blood to be sucked through the teeth. All he can do is pay attention to me, worship me or die. My right hand slips out the syringe as my legs buck against his body. I am lightly grasping onto the syringe. There’s parts of me that don't care if it breaks. He’s focused on my movements, he doesn’t feel the danger, or he doesn’t care. He only cares about what he takes from me.  

It’s lightning quick when I shove the syringe in his neck pushing the substance in him. My bee sting. His arms begin to go limp as I shove my tongue down his throat hoping he chokes on it. I push him like a horse bucking wild to the ground where his head smacks on the cement. Bouncing velvet. People will do anything for money and power. They crave the end more than they realize. Blood seeps from the back of his head, his eyes glassy, he’s mouthing words but they’re indescribable. Ripping off his key card, my prize. I chuckle to myself as his body convulses. It’s a wicked game we play. Goodbye Velvet.

Blame it on the hormones or the bad medicine. Blood continues to twinkle out of his head. There’s no shame in this game, if you win. 

Swiping the key card, I hear the beep beep turn green and the door slides to the left open. Stepping inside, I fluff my maids outfit and see the sign for the stairs. Destination on the tip of my tongue. 

[3PM]

Golden placard number 13 was covered in a strange brown green substance with oil that leaked under its center shift. Touching the placard, it swung left hanging barely. Slippery, it dripped carelessly down the door leaving stains. Something about the entrance didn’t feel right. It looked abandoned. Weathered from time. Sucking in my breath, my hands shivered, twisting the handle open. Room was pitch black except for fluorescent light poles sparking on the ground. My legs wobbled as I traveled inside of the room scared that Dennis was already dead. 

Wheezing filled the air, taking hold of my thoughts, a stranger living in my skin. Rationalizing with myself as I stepped slowly, I remembered that Dennis was troublesome, but well respected. They wouldn’t harm anyone popular would they? One step over the other, there was a crackling of lungs, coughing between the wheezing making a popcorn snapping sensation in the air. 

Beeping noises let out a loud detonation sending static into my ears. Crouching beside the busted fluorescent flickering light, I gasped. Grabbing my ears, it curls through the air, my legs start to buckle. Someone’s rustic voice is whispering, it startles me, I tumble over one of the light bulbs smashing into it. It cuts up my knees through the gauze. Adrenaline is still rushing through my veins. I had gotten this far, and couldn’t have any care in the world about the pain that I’d feel later. Dennis’s face is the first thing that comes to my mind until I touch the end of the hospital bed. 

“Sunny? Is that you?” The voice was Dennis’s and it sounded distant. “Move carefully, they tore up my room.”

Turning my head around me, I see some resemblance of shapes with weight hanging from the ceiling. Shadows of their existence from the busted ceiling lights. Wheezing is growing louder now, as if I am in the body of a monster-ish stomach. It smells of rotten wet stenches left out in the sun too long unclean. Holding my breath and taking small bits of oxygen in as I travel because I wasn’t ready to puke. Something is terribly wrong. 

“Where are you? It’s pitch black in this room. I think I fucked up my knee, but I can limp over to you.”

A pause. Silence filled the air, and time moved in a backwards flow. Passages and colors were passing through my morning to the day. I let out a light growl. A budding headache forms, and I am gasping in too much fumes. No longer the strength of beauty from earlier, the darkness is changing how it makes me feel. The impulsivity after the maid washes to a low non-existent thrum.

“No, I am afraid that won’t be necessary. There’s something I need to tell you.”

The wheezing gets louder, I hear coughing that turns into vomit from a body near my hands resting on the hospital bed. I am closing my eyes because I don’t want to see. Monsters are real. Touching my knee, only tiny shards have gotten in. Just a flesh wound. Leaning harder against the edge of the hospital bed, I realize I haven’t had time to process the violence or the havoc. This has created a reversal effect of what I needed in the moment. Trembling against the plastic, I feel a long toe nail graze my shoulder and my fingers cover my mouth from vomiting. Nosferatu’s toenail. 

“Well, get on with it Dennis. I fucked up some low lives to get to you.”  

A match lights showing an old crinkly hand before it dissipates into the darkness. A gargled voice slurs but Dennis's voice projects from the body. “You see it’s not what you think.” More coughing up lungs circle the room in the air, it comes from every corner. A cello made of thrumming when people fall off cliffs. Their bodies collide with stones, rocks, and the ground hugging with them pillars on the way down. 

Emergency lights flash on with the brightness that you wished killed you. An old man lies bedside with tubes sticking out of his body easily in his 80’s. A young boy’s face is on his mirror, and it’s the brand name Dennis inside. Flawless teeth, deep green eyes and dark hair. His maker, a monster, is wrinkled from time. Green oil is leaking out of the old man’s body with every wheeze. A puddle underneath him with yellowish green sludge dripping around the bed. 

“What the fuck? Who are you?”

“Quit talking Sunshine. Listen to me. I am Dennis.” His lips aren’t moving besides the automated voice of a younger version or the version that appeared created in the mirror. He’s laughing at how shocked I am. Demeaning. Humiliation in his eyes. “You’re the last young person on this planet. You will die alone. The world is dying. I’ll be the last person you’ll ever love.” 

A nerve snaps in my face and I let out a bone chilling scream, my lips splitting by the velocity. A war within shattering all the lore, I’ve learned up until this point. Gripping the letter opener, I shakily can’t decide who deserves more to live or die. 

My face relaxes and it hits me like a steam engine. I whisper to my Dennis in the mirror screen,
“I will be the shadow of your shadow. I’ll be the bird in the summer’s sky. Your sunshine.” 

In a world where individuality is forbidden, social media becomes a drug that cannot turn off false happiness. People fall into self obsessions when human connection is lost. We learn how easy it is to fall host to the gluttonous ways of the self. Now, this lone girl must walk her dying planet alone. Human connection provides us a quality of life that can’t be replaced by materialized dreams. Nonconformity teaches us our imperfections are important facets of the self. Our individualism can be easily lost when it falls host to instant gratification from others. As we look to the future, we must question the world because its trade could be deadly.