Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours of crisis management, placating angry clients, and putting out fires. And now I'm finally home.
The smell hits me first. Garlic. Tomato sauce. My stomach growls, a painful reminder that I haven't eaten since a hastily scarfed granola bar at noon. I shuffle towards the kitchen, my body on autopilot.
The sight that greets me stops me in my tracks. Dirty dishes cover every surface. Half-eaten plates of pasta congeal on the dining room table. An overturned wine glass has left a crimson stain on the tablecloth.
"Lauren! There you are."
Marian's voice, shrill and cold, cuts through my exhaustion-induced haze. She stands in the doorway, arms crossed, perfectly manicured nails tapping away.
"This mess is giving me a migraine. Clean it up, would you?"
"I just got home, Marian. I haven't even—"
"Why can't you manage to get your work done in a reasonable time frame?" Her voice drips with disdain. "Look at this disaster! You should be done by dinner so you can clean up without me waiting for hours."
Of course, she doesn't hear how absolutely ridiculous her demands are.
She never does. And neither does my dad. If he was in the room, he would probably say, "Just do as she says, Lauren. In my day, I learned to stay efficient so I never had to work such long hours." Which is a complete lie, of course—but he'd say it to placate Marian.
My teeth grind with the force of my clenched jaw, but I head to the sink. Water rushes over my hands as I begin to scrub. The motions are automatic, requiring no thought. It's almost meditative, in a twisted way.
Marian continues her tirade, her words washing over me like white noise. I focus on the task at hand. Scrub. Rinse. Dry. Repeat.
My stomach growls again, louder this time. I ignore it. I've gotten good at ignoring my own needs.
"Are you even listening to me?" Marian's voice rises an octave.
I don't respond. What's the point? Nothing I say will change anything. She'll still see me as the interloper, the unwanted reminder of her husband's past.
"Unbelievable," she mutters. I hear the click of her heels as she stalks away, no doubt off to complain to my father about my insolence.
The kitchen slowly transforms under my hands. Dishes find their way back to cabinets. The stained tablecloth goes into the wash. I wipe down every surface until it gleams.
Only when the room is spotless do I allow myself to think about food. The fridge yields cold cuts and slightly wilted lettuce. It's not much, but it'll do.
I assemble a sandwich as little more than a robot on autopilot. The first bite is heaven, bringing me back to humanity. I close my eyes, savoring the simple combination of flavors. For a moment, I allow myself to imagine a different life. One where I come home to a warm meal and people who actually care about my well-being.
The fantasy shatters as quickly as it forms. This is my reality. I've accepted it. Haven't I?
Sandwich finished, I make my way towards my room. The glow of the TV spills into the hallway. Randall and Marissa's voices drift out, punctuated by the somber tones of a news anchor.
"...hundreds of meteors streaking across the sky, shocking astronomers and civilians alike."
I pause, curiosity momentarily overriding my desire for solitude.
Marissa's voice cuts in. "Do you think it has anything to do with that weird countdown?"
"Shut up," Randall snaps. "I'm trying to listen."
"...an anonymous source at NASA confirms that they came from nowhere. The space agency had no prior warning..."
First the countdown, now meteors in the sky? And they're claiming NASA had no idea they were there?
All the conspiracy theories about the phones are starting to make sense. The world feels off-kilter, like we're teetering on the edge of... something.
I shake my head, dispelling the ominous thoughts. It's probably nothing. Just my overtired brain conjuring up doomsday scenarios.
* * *
My heart pounds against my ribs as I cower before the approaching giant. Long black hair cascades down to his waist, framing a face that's both beautiful and terrifying. Dark eyes bore into mine, seeming to strip away every defense, every secret.
He's shirtless, his muscled torso marred by cuts and streaks of blood. But it's not the injuries that make my breath catch in my throat. It's the tattoos. They writhe across his skin like living things, shifting and changing before my eyes.
The giant's lips move, and a harsh, guttural language spills forth. I flinch at the sound. It's chilling. Alien.
"Lauren!" Marian's shrill voice pierces the air. "Do something! Throw something at him!"
I glance back. Marian, Randall, and Marissa huddle behind me, using me as a human shield. Typical. Even in the face of death, they expect me to protect them.
My gaze darts around frantically. We're surrounded by corpses—human and... other. Twisted, monstrous forms litter the ground alongside familiar faces. The stench of death fills my nostrils, threatening to overwhelm me.
But it's the man who terrifies me the most. He advances with slow, deliberate steps, each one bringing him closer to our huddled group.
My fingers close around something solid. A broken chair leg. I brandish it before me, the pathetic weapon shaking in my grip.
The giant man laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that sends shivers down my spine. How tall is he? Well over six feet, at least. My makeshift club suddenly feels laughably inadequate.
"Back off!" Randall's voice rings out as he steps forward. He's holding something long and metallic—a pipe, maybe? For once, I'm almost grateful for his presence.
At least he's no longer cowering behind me.
The intruder's eyes narrow, his brows pulling together as he regards Randall. He speaks again, in that harsh, unknown language.
Randall yells, "Get back, or I'll kill you!" in a voice that's surprisingly not shaking. His face is flushed as he swings the pipe between them in a menacing manner, but he looks like a kid up against a real man.
Strange black dots on Randall's neck catch my attention; were they there before? Never mind. That's not the problem right now.
The world blurs into motion. The strange man moves with impossible speed and grace. There's a flash of steel—where did he get a sword?—and then...
Randall's head topples from his shoulders.
Time slows to a crawl as I watch it roll across the blood-soaked ground. It comes to rest at my feet, Randall's eyes wide and lifeless, mouth frozen in a silent scream.
Marian shrieks behind me, a sound that chills me down to my bones as I stare at Randall's face…
Strong fingers close around my arm, yanking me forward. I stumble, my gaze finally breaking away from the gruesome sight. Randall's murderer looms over me, his grip like iron, his dark eyes blazing as he yells at me in that strange language—
I bolt upright, a scream dying in my throat. Sweat plasters my pajamas to my skin, and my chest heaves as I gulp down air. My eyes dart around wildly, taking in the familiar contours of my bedroom.
No corpses. No monsters. No terrifying giant with moving tattoos.
Just a dream. A horrifyingly vivid nightmare, but a dream nonetheless.
My hand flies to my neck, half-expecting to feel those strange black spots that had appeared on Randall. Nothing but smooth, unbroken skin meets my fingertips.
I fumble for my phone, squinting at the sudden brightness as I check the time, but there's only the now-familiar countdown.
[World's End: 01:23:59:43]