To Ashes

I.

There are countless jets flying over the apartment. They announce themselves with roars so loud they vibrate in my shins. Sasha and I close the blinds and shut off the lights. We huddle on the floor in my room, and I’m sure that we’re about to be blown away any second.

Sasha laughs. I don’t think she knows what else to do.

The emergency alerts buzz and screech through our phones letting us know that, while the jets are armed, they show no signs of hostility. As if their existence alone isn’t hostile.

The initial reports say that there is no reason to panic. There are hundreds of thousands of them flying all around the world. No country is claiming them, and they don’t seem to have pilots. Aviation experts have identified them as everything from old World War II designs to jets so new that they’ve only been seen in blueprints. To me, they all look like bulky, plump birds.

Sash goes out to watch them fly. I stay in my dark room with the shades drawn, hoping the absence of light will make me a harder target.

II.

The jets are changing. I only know this because Sash took the blinds off the windows in the living room. She was tired of me closing them, tired of coming home to darkness. I still avoid looking outside, as if glancing at them will turn me to stone. I don’t know. I know I’m being ridiculous, but the sound hasn’t stopped and my nerves are raw edges.

When Sash looks out the windows in the morning she swears, and I look before I can stop myself. I see a jet flying low over the duplex across the street, and trailing behind is a long silver tail, like the ribbon of a kite.

On the news, they’re showing viral footage of a man walking through a park in Chicago—not even two hours away from us—when a jet swoops low, wraps him in its tail and carries him up, up and away. Somewhere past the skyline.

They’re telling us to stay inside unless we absolutely must go out.

III.

The wings have been slowly evolving over the last few months. They bend and flap, and the propulsion systems have dissolved into flat, thrashing, webbed things. People on the internet are worshiping them now, as if they are angels watching over us, taking only the chosen to whatever mysterious destination they carry people off to.

Everything is still so loud. Earplugs live in my ears, and I feel like every cell in my body is buzzing. Like my skin is going to melt off at any second.

The apartment complex has organized group trips to the grocery store so no one walks alone. We take turns standing on the outside of the pack while we make the two-block trek.

I’m able to stay home and work my tutoring gigs, but Sash manages a Wendy’s down the road, so she walks to and from work every day.

At one point, she asks me if I would walk with her so she wouldn’t be going alone. I say I already go to the store for us, and the sound is too much when I’m outside. She looks hurt and for a second I think she looks a little scared. She never brings it up again.

IV.

They’re dragons. The spines have finally formed, and the solid silver bodies of the jets have become scaly and flexible. They slither through the sky with their newly formed dragon heads, but they don’t sound like dragons. They still sound like jets. They open their mouths, and their cries rip through the sky like long, mechanical thunder.

Sash comes home from work, walks past my open bedroom door, and finds me curled up on my bed with my laptop. I’m exhausted from having to pretend to be fine for the kids I spent all day tutoring in the pythagorean theorem.

Her face is blank. “Aren’t you tired of being scared all the time?”

“I don’t know what else to be,” I reply. After a silence, I add, “Aren’t you?”

She thinks about this for a moment, her flat gaze melting into pity. “I don’t really have the time to be scared.” Then she walks the rest of the way to her room and closes the door.

That night, she puts the blinds back up in the living room.

V.

The dragons that used to be jets have started burning things. It’s not like real fire. Last week they burned the pine tree in the courtyard. The flames ate it up into nothing. When I’m brave enough to peek out the windows, I try to look at the empty ashen space, but my eyes refuse to see it.

I spend hours researching fireproof blankets and jackets online. All seem to be inconsistently effective against the strange new fire. But something is better than nothing.

I offer to buy a jacket for Sash when she gets home. She glances over the product page. “I’ll think about it.”

The people who worship the dragons have started to stand outside with their arms open, begging to be engulfed. Sometimes it works. I wonder if it’s worth it for them.    

Later that night I order two jackets.

VI.

Sash is ready for work and turns to say goodbye before she leaves.

“Do you want me to walk with you?” I spit it out before I can take it back.

She pauses and looks surprised. “Are you sure?”

“Y-yeah.”

She smiles a little. “It’s okay, but thank you.”

I think for a second that I should push her more, but I’m too busy feeling relieved. I can ask again tomorrow.  

Sasha never comes back from work.

I cry into the empty space she left behind until all I have left is the sonic booming roar of the dragons outside.

* * *

Ⓒ Emlyn Meredith Dornemann