The World Ended.
Frankie Didn't.

~~~~~~

Too quiet.

Too still.

Something about it feels… final.

I shake it off and keep moving.

I shouldn’t.

My shoulders pull tight. The hair on my arms rises.

My eyes dart to Monster.

He’s reacting too—back arched, fur lifting.

He doesn’t do that for nothing.

He’s not subtle—but he’s never wrong.

I listen.

He hears it first.

I slow.

Scan. 

Nothing.

We round the corner, passing neat, quiet suburban homes.

A sharp envy cuts through me as I take in the wide yards, the multi-bedroom houses, the garages big enough to fit two Hummers.

Like I missed something everyone else got.

Or walked away from it.

Nobody’s out.

The curfew hasn’t been lifted.

Passing a Honda Civic, I catch my reflection in the back window—messy hair the same dark color as Coraline.

My skin looks almost translucent in the dull light—veins faint beneath it.

My black leather jacket is smudged with dirt, smelling faintly of cedar. My faded green army pants are worn through the pockets from constant use.

Monster begins to tug nervously at the harness.

Not pulling.

Warning.

I pause. 

I wonder why—when doors start opening.

All at once.

Too exact.

The Stepford Wives vibe hits hard.

But no one is leaving for work.

Women. Children. Men.

All of them shoving belongings into their cars—fast, frantic.

Something’s wrong.

Really wrong.

My hand goes for my phone. It slides across an empty pocket. 

I left it plugged in beside my bed. 

Monster leans in close.

Fuck.

~~~~~