The fanblades on the ceiling spun, but did little to cool the air. Thick, sticky moisture hung about the room, clinging to the walls, the furniture. As the room perspired, Sunday lay spread fully, eyes following one fanblade, now another, as each sliced through the same solid, viscous air.
She rose heavily from her mattress, which was carelessly placed in the center of the floor. The rough yarn of the carpet was rendered soggy by the humid night, and Sunday’s bare feet squished towards the door. On her way, she lifted a damp zippered sweatshirt from a beanbag chair. Putting it on, she went downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of cream soda, which she downed immediately. She set the glass down and went to the living room. It stretched dangerously in front of her, and Sunday could just make out the front door on the opposite end. She zipped up her hoodie and left the house.
Outside gave no hint that it had any idea what the air was like Inside, and Sunday was grateful to him. As she neared the road, a car approached. The nearer it came, the slower it came. When it was beside her, the window made a lazy, whirring descent into the door. Sunday stared after it disappeared.
“You blazin’?” asked the driver. Sunday’s head turned to one side, then the other. “Okay, man,” said the driver, and the car disappeared. Silence.
Sunday saw her shadow. It was still slowly, deliberately shaking its head. It stopped. She looked up. Insects gathered around a blazing star. Leaves rustled lightly in the Night’s final breeze. She took a few difficult steps forward, then started to run. Her legs shortly gave out, and Sunday pitched forward. She rolled herself onto her back. Above were the leaves, full of the small stirring the air still held. She looked back at the light. The insects flew more and more slowly. The leaves fell still. The wind fled.
Blotchy darkness stuck to everything. The ground below Sunday was soft, melting butter. It gave way to her weight. She coughed. No sound. She glanced around frantically. She saw no flies. But the Light remained. Shrinking. Sunday descended lazily, disappearing into the ground. No whirring. Sinking.
She yelled. Nothing. Willed her arms to move. Nothing. The leaves, the grass, the clouds. Stillness. Suspension.
The inky darkness started creeping. The light shrank further. Approaching shadows. Couldn’t move. The bugs wouldn’t help. Not the tree, either. The blazing Light rushed away, up, up.
Then, motion. All the yelling, the coughing, the flailing arms, rushing in, along with the darkness. All bore down, thunderous, treacherous. Deafening. Cacophonous murder. A shadow shouted. Dude?
Sunday sat up and opened her eyes. It was dawn. “Hey man, sure you’re not stoned?” A boy looked at her, holding her arms. A car waited twenty feet behind him. His words left a musk of alcohol lingering in front of Sunday’s face.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She blinked twice.
“Haha, alright man.” More alcohol words. The boy smiled at her.
“Come on, Rob. Let’s go!” The car called out in a muffled tone. Faces peered through its windows.
“All right!” the boy called back. He turned to Sunday. “Later.” And he jogged with some unsteadiness back to the car. Sunday stood and went back inside.
