I started writing this story ages ago and got sidetracked by a whole bunch of stuff so stopped working on it. I thought I'd post what I've got over the next few weeks with the vain hope it'll motivate me to finish it!
Hope you guys like it!
The phone rings non-stop.
For some reason that I am yet to be aware of, they think that I can help. Or maybe they're calling to spew some long string of profanities at me. I'm not sure how quick the stages of grief fly by when the whole world is in the same boat, but it wouldn't surprise me if a lot of people have already hit anger and blame. Speaking from experience, the list of criteria you have to meet to be blamed for this kind of stuff is very short.
This being said, I've only had 3 stones thrown through my window since Saturday. That may be up from my total of 0 last week but it's down compared to last year. Of course, when you realise over half of the population was suddenly wiped out, having any stones thrown into your apartment at all is a bit of a bummer. By extrapolation, I would have probably had around 6 smashed windows this week. If the population had somehow spontaneously recovered after being horrifically spliced in half, that is.
The rain outside and the noises from inside the apartment block form a familiar cacophony that drills into my head. My lips savour the bitter whisky that's found its way up to them and then let loose a long and tired sigh. I set my glass on the desk. The phone really doesn't stop ringing. Even worse, the chimes and buzzes of my cell phone are just as unending. It'll be Trish. I let it ring for a little longer, then I down the rest of the whisky before picking it up.
"Jess?" comes a voice from the other end of the phone.
She's drunk. And worried as always.
"I'm still here." I say. Cold. Like the ice in my glass.
"Good." she sighs. "Good. Jess, I really -"
I cut her off. "We're still here, Trish. Now go home and go to bed."
"No, Jess, wait! -"
I hang up. A smidge of regret hits me but I swipe it away when I remember what she's done. Disasters happen - a lot. She's lucky I've started picking up her calls. I grab the bottle of whisky from the cabinet and pour another finger into the glass. I'm glad I stocked up before it happened. You know, they tried to impose martial law and stuff but they realised they didn't have enough personnel left to do that... So instead their attempt to control the whole 'end-of-days' era is by cutting off anything fun. Posters, flares, etcetera etcetera. Alcohol is of course at the top of that list. Wouldn't want some drunk idiot blowing up the nearest building to avenge his dead family, or something. Which is bad for my liquor cabinet, but I get it. People do stupid things in a crisis. If anything would be cause to strike up another prohibition, I guess this is it.
I was lucky, I know that. I was alone. Woke up on a pile of pictures of some old dude in glasses to the sound of the TV. A plane had crashed into the Chrysler Building and killed a bunch of people. The news reel was made up of people screaming and crying. The local reporters were branding it a second 9/11 - everyone kept pausing, pressing earpieces and looking away in wait for information about other attacks that may have taken place. Then as the minutes passed by they started realising the real reason for the screaming. I'd rushed into the kitchen for a jacket. I only caught the last part of the broadcast while I reached for my cell on the desk. Even with what I can do, with what I'm capable of? I knew it was out of my league. My phone slipped out of my hand and I threw my jacket on the floor. For some people it was seconds apart. For others it took up to a day before they went too. That's what made it so painful. Footage of people rejoicing in the street after hours of digging out their loved ones before turning to dust. Not even a body left to mourn. There's only thing comforting about that - there's still some kind of closure. Sure, you watch your kid or your mother or your partner for ten years crumble to nothingness mid-sentence. But at least you know they've gone. When people live their lives alone or happen to be demolishing a wall at the time of the event, it gets a lot harder to establish whether they're dead or on holiday in France somewhere. This obviously explains a lot of calls to my office. So for the first few days when I was still answering the phone - well, that was a stupid idea. You know how most people die from a heart attack on the toilet or some stupid shit like that? Yeah, well I had to turn down a lot of missing person cases involving dust in the bathroom. Miraculously, most of the callers don't know about my... abilities. The ones that do sound far more desperate - or far angrier. I treat them all the same, naturally. Even the occasional plea from government agencies that have caught wind of what I can do. Anything I pick up doesn't last longer than a few seconds.
Of course, there's only so much I can ignore.
My fingers grip the chiselled glass in my hand a little harder as my chest gets a little tighter. There's an empty bedroom in the apartment below.
As soon as I realised what had happened, I started seeing him again. It's getting worse the further we get from it. I hear him, first in the distance, then through the hairs on my neck. When I squeeze my eyes shut, they open again in a different place. Right now I'm on a balcony, staring at the street a hundred windows below with a bright yellow dress flapping in the summer wind. Only, the sun isn't actually shining and I'm soaked to the bone in rain. A thunderclap quickly follows a flash of lightning that crackles behind the bridge in the background; the noise startles the ghost of a horse down below and its frightened yelps cause me to almost tumble over the edge.
"Jessica." says Kilgrave softly, but sternly. This isn't the same moment now, I know. His voice makes clear that I've lost all glimmers of freedom - and though in the back of my head I know he's gone, that I'm free, right now I'm here in the pouring rain as he makes his way to the ledge in his purple suit. He touches my ear but I can't pull away. As blood starts to wind its way down his fingers, flowing faster and faster, he cups my head and presses his body against mine.
"Main street. Birch street," I say desperately, but I still can't move.
"Don't be selfish Jessica." Blood oozes through his fingers and all sound is blocked from one ear.
"Main street. Birch street. Higgins drive. Co-"
The rooftop fades and I blink back into a silent version of my apartment. Kilgrave's hands rest comfortably in his pockets.
"Was I not enough for you, then?" he asks me solemnly. This feels more real now. The patter of rain is subdued by the apartment walls.
"I'm sad, really, I am, that your boyfriend's quite literally bit the dust, but this - me being here - just goes to show you that you'll never really get over what we had."
My head boils but it shakes just so slightly enough to warn him that Oscar is in a far, untouched corner of my mind. He searches my eyes for the reason real he has appeared. Not his hated succession by my dead boyfriend. No, for the familiar feeling of all control and freedom having been ripped out from under me all over again. The moment he finds it, his head briefly twists and snaps as it did when I killed him.
"Oh, you're not still stuck on that, are you? Free will, control, all that bollocks?" he sighs stroppily. "You know, even I'm not upset about it anymore! So what if you're not out playing good Samaritan? Even if you were being a decent human and going outside to help them - controlling things out there won't mean you'll claw back control in here!" he points to his head, eyes bulging.
"Truthfully Jessica, if you can't even will yourself to go out and help them, those -" he struggles for the words. "Funny, desperate people trapped under rubble in the streets..." he pauses. His ego wraps around him like a cloud and all outside problems are forgotten. "Well then, you weren't ever even really free to love me back in the first place."
Before he can say any more I throw the whisky glass with all my strength straight through his image and into the wall ahead. The glass shatters on impact but not before it's made a dent, with pieces of whisky-soaked glass embedded into the caved plaster like the fragmented mouth of a homeless tramp.
Even though the phone is still ringing, I miss the reassurance of angry shouting from somewhere below.
This is why I stay inside.
After a few swigs from the bottle and a long cast glance into the hallway, I throw myself onto my bed to sleep.
Usually the alcohol knocks me out enough for me not to be bothered by dreams. Tonight's different - of course it is. That first day, when night had fallen and the agonised screams had stopped, I heard movement through the corridors. I can hear the same movement now.
I peel myself from the bed and move through the quickly dissipating dream to the door. Before I can do much else a hurried knock sounds at it.
Malcom? No, I don't know whether he's... He wouldn't knock here now anyway.
The knocks sound again. I reach for the handle but the door is stuck. The sounds are getting closer together. Trish? With a significant tug I pull open the door. Looking into vastness, I see no-one there.
Then I look down.
It's Vido.
I wake up with a gasp and find myself standing on the inside of the door to my apartment. Rain still splashes against the windows. I don't usually dream but the exhaustion of today is just as familiar as every other day this week (and from what it feels like, most of my life). Grumbling, I come to my senses. I don't usually sleepwalk either. The phone is silent. The door looms in front of me. For the reassurance, I rip it open.
In front of me are two worried, and evidently surprised faces.