Chasm

Warning: Gore.

- RAYA -

The air feels lighter outside after I leave Moxie Coffeehouse. I've made some notes and a few sketches in the journal that Dex gave me, which—I'll admit—felt a little weird at first to be writing in since I have the same one at home for an entirely different purpose. But then I allowed myself to get lost in the atmosphere of Moxie, listening to the customers come in and have friendly conversations with the employees, watching those who stayed perched on the tall stools overlooking the street or sunk into comfy chairs while they read books or worked on their computers. It was clear who were regulars and who were new, because the employees always greet everyone and engage them in conversation.

Now my mind is overflowing with possibilities for Moxie's advertising. The girl at the counter told me they try to take photos of the customers, the shop, and the coffee and post them as frequently as they can on their social media accounts. But they don't have any one person in charge of it, and they haven't started text or email yet. Their website is pretty bare bones at the moment.

There are so many possibilities for them, because their inspiration for getting started in the first place comes from a deep passion for establishing relationships with coffee growers and honoring their trade. Not to mention the fact that just their drip coffee alone is so good and interesting with all the flavors they include.

"They need to show their passion for supporting the farmers they source from. People will love to see that." I'm mumbling to myself, looking over my notes while walking through the city with others flowing around me like water. Everyone is on their way to somewhere.

At the final crosswalk before the block that Möbius is located on, an old lady is next to me. I only take notice because she hums something joyful and then looks at me with my open notebook, still concentrating on the ideas that are firing like little pistons in my imagination.

"It's a beautiful day," she says brightly with that thin, frail voice that older people come to develop.

It immediately reminds me of my nana, and I look up to see her smiling at me. The curly white hair and faint blue eyes that have started to dull over the years into something like a cloud of wisdom.

"It is," I smile back and then turn back to the notebook in my hands.

The light changes, indicating that we can now walk, and she goes ahead of me when a sudden spark of inspiration strikes about a feature Moxie can use on their website that I quickly jot down. Then my feet start following, entering the street.

I don't see the car that speeds straight for us. I don't see the danger until I literally run into its sleek, shiny side and am thrown back onto the sidewalk, too shocked by the impact and the squealing brakes and the pain that erupts everywhere to even understand what's happened. But then I notice a thick trail of blood and fleshy fragments strewn and smeared, leading to the front of a large black SUV that ran the light and is now stopped in the middle of the road, its brake lights still red, its driver still behind the wheel.

Who did they hit? Who did they hit?

I know, but my brain isn't allowing it to process. It can't be the little old lady who was just speaking to me. It can't be her. Right? That's impossible. I don't live in a world where that's possible.

That's when it feels like the earth jolts free of its secure axis, sending everything spinning on its side in dizzying, maddening confusion like some kind of joke—like I have lived my whole life until now believing there was solid ground beneath my feet, and the universe has chosen this very moment to show me the truth. There is no ground. There is only this spinning, sickening motion that has me instantly curled over myself, hurling my stomach contents onto the street.

People are gathering around with gasps and yells, and someone asks if I'm okay, but I can't possibly respond or look at them. I'm glued to the ground, my hands flat against the concrete, making sure its there and trying to ensure that it will stay there and that I won't go flying off into the endless chasm that has opened, threatening to swallow me whole.

She's gone. That beautiful, kind old woman is gone. And the last thing she did was speak to me.

That's when I start to panic, sucking air into my lungs that feel entirely too tight—especially with the sobs that are trying to escape at the same time. I can't breathe and cry at the same time. These two things can't coexist.

"Oh my god, Auraya." There is a jacket draped over my shoulders, someone grabbing hold of my arms and tipping my chin up. "How hurt are you?"

It's Dex. Of course it's Dex. Why wouldn't it be? He was the first thing that didn't make sense, and now the rest of the world has apparently followed right along after. But I can't focus on him or answer him… I'm not sure I can even breathe.

"There's an ambulance on the way. Can you stand?"

When I don't answer, he pulls something from his pocket and wipes my face. I see it happening, but I don't feel it. I can't feel anything but the burning in my lungs and the strangled hysteria in my throat—caught, unable to escape.

Meanwhile, people start flowing around us again—the tide of bodies that have decided they have seen enough and are ready to go on with their day like there isn't still a tragedy right here in the middle of it that will never be made whole again.

"I'm going to help you up, Raya. Do you understand?"

When I nod, he lifts me to my feet and wraps an arm around me, and then I notice my shoes… my bag… the notebook… all scattered like pieces to a puzzle leading back to the memory of what happened. And the trail of blood.

"The little lady," I hear my trembling voice say, finger pointing to where she must be—where she is obscured by the SUV. And then I realize the bloody mess I'm in as well… gashes all along my arm, my hand shaking.

Lawson is there, picking up my things and placing them into my bag and trying to hand it to me. Dex takes it instead.

"I'm going to take her to the hospital," Dex says, though not to me. And for a second I think he's talking about the woman who was hit. He can't take her… she's… she's…

"An ambulance is coming," Lawson replies, cutting off my thought.

"My truck is parked right here. It will be faster."