Page 31 of The Last Man on Earth
Ariana
I wake up aloneto the sounds of birds chirping and insects buzzing around my ears.
After a few quick swats, settle back down, grateful for the relatively insect-free sleep I just had. Villain is off doing God knows what, but even when he’s gone, I know I’m never alone. The creepy crawlies don’t sleep.
It’s day four, I think. My head feels heavy. Must be from the champagne. And the weed. I still can’t believe I let him convince me to smoke with him. But it wasn’t bad at all. Matter of fact, I might still be high right now. I have a strange sense of peace that wasn’t there yesterday. Or the day before. Or any days as far back as I remember.
I stare up at the leaf canopy and sigh softly. The air is warm and damp and the light is soft. If not for the context, this would feel like a tropical vacation.
I kinda needed one of those.
Back home, I’m always on the go. Planes, suitcases, hotels, Ubers and taxis. A few quick selfies in front of some monument or sight and then right back at it.
When I’m not working, it’s outings with friends—lots of dinners and lounges. If not friends, I’m at Ashara’s house hanging with her and the girls.
Dates happen when friends and family don’t. Some good, some bad.
And I wouldn’t change a thing.
That’s what I always told myself, at least. I’m not a fan of stillness. Never have been. But I’m still right now and wondering if all that coming and going was merunningfrom something.
I shake my head to stop the incoming spiral, then I make the mistake of sitting up. A wave of dizziness forces my eyes closed. All I can do is wait for it to pass.
There.
The dull ache in my leg has mostly subsided, so I unwrap it and take a look. Where it was red and angry before, the gash is almost closed, and the blood is nicely clotted. I don’t think I need the bandage anymore.
I brush my teeth, change into clean underwear, and slide my days-old dress back over my head. Fresh clothes will have to wait until I wash properly. Something about clean clothes on a dirty body makes me itch.
Like my scalp right now. I pat it mercilessly, wondering if I should take out my sew-in. My hair must look like a bird’s nest by now.
I pull out my Chanel compact and stare down at it, debating. Ultimately, I can’t bring myself to flip it open because I feel my best when I look my best. I’m not quite ready to confirm how tore up I look. There’s enough going on right now, no need to throw salt on my own wound.
I wonder what Villain sees when he looks at me. I can’t help but smile when I think about last night, how I could feel his eyes on me as I drifted off to sleep. I’m kicking myself for never being interested enough in celebrity gossip, because now I’m thinking about his fiancée, wondering what she looks like. If she’s beautiful. If she makes him happy.
Not that it matters.
I’m just curious.
I don’t know anything about his world beyond his stage name, that he has a kid, and that he’s had some hits. But now, I find myself intrigued.
I’m rummaging through my bag for my lip gloss when my fingers brush my pack of birth control pills. I pop one out and swallow it dry, hoping I can stave off my period before I starts. Then I approach the wreckage, forgetting all about my lip gloss.
It’s a charred skeleton now, its black bones broken and cracked. I step carefully, keeping to the edges of the debris.
The tail is where I need to be. It also happens to be the least destroyed part of the jet. It’s tilted on its side, so I'm able to crouch and peer under the twisted panels, running my fingers along jagged seams. My hands come away black with soot and empty.
This isn’t working.
I push past my fear and duck under a bent piece of fuselage. The air inside is hot and stale, almost putrid. I gag slightly, but I hold it together long enough to spot it, bright against the grey ruin. A box, scorched but stubbornly orange, bolted into the frame.
For a second I just stare at it, my pulse pounding in my ears. It feels strange looking at it. This little thing holds the truth about what happened to us. The proof we existed. The proof we were here. A beacon of hope and rescue. It’s a monument of sorts.
I reach out and touch it, then make a futile attempt to tug it out of its place. It’s heavier than I expected, and of course I’m not strong enough to remove it with my bare hands. I scoot backwards out of the wreckage, settling onto my knees.
I’m a little disappointed, and I’m not sure why.
Actually, that’s a lie.
