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@wildviolcts

Morgan could not remember the last time she had sat in an interview. It had been years since anyone had asked her to tell them about a time when… Nor had she updated her resumé since the heels of her shoes first clicked against the marble floors of the Charles Schwab lobby. Associate Financial Consultant, Global Equities was the entry-level role her Bachelors in Finance from NYU had afforded her. Twenty-five thousand hours spent pouring over financial models and equities. Twenty-five thousand hours spent calculating liquidity, assets and throwing around numbers with more zeros than any morality should allow. Twenty-five thousand hours spent missing sending apology cards and flowers for missed dates, calling her mother to disappoint her with her absence from Thanksgiving, Christmas and Birthday dinners. She was no longer the same greenhorn finance graduate, who wobbled in heels and fingers trembled when she spoke on the phone with investors.

She was a competitor, and it was the single advantage she had in the finance world dominated by men. Morgan expected perfection from her colleagues, and even more of herself. After all, they worked in a business of risk and assurance. Risk was always found in the unknowns- the single enemy of a good investment opportunity. Always first to the office, and last to leave, she stepped on the neck and suffocated any word to question her abilities, her determination, or her drive. Morgan presented herself as an assurance, a straight-forward, early investment opportunity for the firm to capitalise on. It was the reason she had risen above the rest of her graduate peers. She would win no popularity contests, but her insights had fattened the wallets of her clients, and added zeros to the portfolio of her firm.

Morgan prided herself on her keen eye, an ability to see value before the writing was scrawled on the wall. Something she was sure Maxwell from Human Resources lacked. She could only guess by her dismissal of her third executive assistant in as many months. (One mistake was forgivable. Two, however, was banishment. She could not miss investor meetings simply because of her assistant's moment of scheduling forgetfulness at best, ineptitude to operate a simple fucking calendar at worst.) 'A difference in selection criteria' was how she had carefully worded her nebulous rebuke of the failure to hire a competent candidate. Her email was polite, before closing with a demand an assurance that she was more of capable of conducting the selection process again, herself. She made multi-million dollar decisions, she could pick out an assistant that could answer her calls.

At least, that's what she had told herself. But after sifting through the first few resumés that had landed on her desk, with a hundred more still printing, the blue pen she had carefully selected for annotating and striking through the lifetimes of achievements, lulled in her hand. What was she looking for? An equal. Meticulous, driven, thick-skinned and not afraid of doing the work. Someone who would understand the pressure of her job, and clear the path of the menial, and trivial work that pulled her focus away from the decisions only she could make. Someone who could put up with her temper, and her direct words, and still perform at their best. She couldn't help but smile to herself, at the absurdity of it all. She doesn't exist. As far as her dating exploits had informed her- her equal was not wandering New York.

Of the few resumés that had not been culled for various reasons (spelling or grammar mistakes, menial college alma mater, unsuitable font choice, inappropriate use of colour on a formal document, an email address that was certainly set up as a teenager in the early 2000s, to name a few,) a single round of interviews began. She had scheduled them one after another, determined not to spend more than a day (let alone the entire week HR had taken previously). By the time she walked out of the building for the evening, she was confident she would have called to make an offer.

Midday had passed, as had half of the field of candidates. The sleeves of her neatly pressed dress shirt were folded up her forearms, her top button undone- signs of frustration by the lack of chemistry her efforts had yielded.

She stood in greeting from behind her uncharacteristically tidy table, unusually bare of the documents that required her sign off, investor reports, contracts from legal and the rest of the paperwork that plastered her broad, lacquered wood desk. Morgan noted the unusual light in her office- the early afternoon sun, streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows of the corner office, reflected off of the empty surface of her desk and arms of her cream leather sofa. All but four items had been cleared from her desk; a resumé, a notepad, a blue pen and her coffee cup. She appraised the woman as she had walked into her office- on time and neat in her appearance. A pretty face. A firm handshake. Morgan smiled politely as she gestured for the woman to sit across from her. "Miss Doss," she spoke to herself, her fingers finding the freshly printed resumé with the small blue asterisks and circles she had added in her preparation the evening before. Morgan let the silence linger as her eyes scanned the resumé, as if she needed a reminder of the life achievements of the candidate in front of her. As if she had not studied them carefully over tea late yesterday evening. After a few moments pause, she cleared her throat. "I must say, your resumé reads well. Scholarship at Barnard. Bachelors in English. Your letter of recommendation… Your professor speaks to your abilities. More than my own professors would have spoke of mine." She placed the resumé on her table, and picked up the pen, tapping the nib on the blank piece of lined paper. Her eyes locked with Violet's- the resumé sung, as did the commendations of her professor. There was assurance. But what was her risk? What was her unknown? "You tell a compelling story with all of these pieces put together. But there is one thing I'm left questioning. Why do you want this job? Judging by your major, and your extracurriculars, I don't see an interest in Finance, nor an undying love of organising someone else's professional life. By your professor's account, you have a promising set of skills for your area of study. So, why are we meeting today?"

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She had been awoken time, and time before, but never had the gentle hold of a dreamless hibernation been shattered with such brutality. Her daze ended abruptly, the limbs    her limbs convulsed, suddenly under her command.

Her lungs burned, too full and aching from the force of her heaving ribs. Nova was sure they would've expanded further, had her knees not tucked themselves into her chest, locked in place by trembling arms. Her fingernails bit into her biceps, the sting barely registered in the fray of her awakening. The fluorescent tubes of the hospital room was too harsh for her adjusting eyes, refracting and scattering in the tears trapped in her eyes. Her heart hurled itself against her ribs, aching and beating itself with a rapid violence, no matter how desperately she begged it to be gentle.

Her body was an act of violence in itself. It itched, it ached, it burned and it shook. What had she done?

If there had been any room left in her body, doubt would have crept in and taken hold. Doubt over leaving the flowers, and their gentle ways. Her body was drowning her in emotions she had yet to experience, yet to know their names.

Agony. The word came to her with clarity, and would not leave her. Agony.

Agony was laced with desperation- to find a way out. To find a way home. The panic would not subside. Her mind consumed with the memory of this body’s demise. You're being chased. Her head shot up, bleary eyes widened and blinking rapidly to focus on the door of the sterile room.

She was alone.

Nova tucked her chin back to her chest, forehead resting against her knobbly knees. She screwed her eyes shut, wishing for sleep to gently cradle her ruthless and exhausted body.

His freckled, toothy smile cut through the shrieking panic, and her heart stopped. Danny. The name came to her without a struggle. Like it belonged on the tip of her tongue. A soothing, familiar thought, never far from her mind's reach. She could not keep the sobs from wracking her body. His face sparked a new wave of emotion - a new twisted mix of feelings, bright and consuming. A warmth struck her, love, an unquestionable, devotion to this boy. Did she feel this way? She could not think, nor separate her thoughts from the small comfort the thought of him provided. The ache in her chest was sharp, sorrow, but she clung to the warm feeling. Warm, like a slow, thick trickle down her arms   

"Stop it. Stop it," she pleaded in barely a whisper. Her body would not let go of the breath she was holding- starving her of the air that was greedily sucked into her lungs. Nova didn't know who she was asking for mercy. Agony? The body? Danny? She could not say. All she knew was it had to stop.

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Blood. She could taste blood in the back of her throat; the hemoglobin from the red blood cells that kept her running. Kept her breathing. Kept her alive. But for how much longer?

She’d never been much of a runner, and she cursed herself now for having taken up ballet rather than a more useful sport. Her body, though used to contorting and contracting in on itself, had not been conditioned for distance nor speed. Her muscles, though they could propel her into the air, hold her suspended on her toes, flex and unflex and flex again for hours on end, had never meant to carry her to the ends of the earth. 

She realized with a sickening drop of her heart that that’s how far they would follow her. To the ends of the earth. They had the equipment and the numbers and the time. She had nothing. 

Violet willed herself faster, but she was growing too tired too quickly. She veered right, her body acting before her brain could fully catch up, when a sudden passageway opened up to her. She hoped that she’d be slick enough to disappear before they could follow, but they were so close and she was so tired. As she sprinted down the wide hallway - barely making sense of the doors on either side, only fearing they’d be locked and she’d be wasting time - she briefly considered just giving up. Reaching the end of the hall and taking the pistol that sat in her pocket of her jacket which was currently flapping wildly against her thigh, holding it up to her own temple, and taking what those greedy, ravenous hands behind her were so desperate for. 

Just as quickly as the thought came, another followed behind it, twisting agonizingly in the softness of her stomach.

Danny. What would he do without her?

She thought to him then, still small enough that she had to remind him not to suck his thumb, or his teeth would grow in wrong. Still small enough that sometimes, when he dreamt of their parents, he would wet the bed. Could she blame him? What would he do when she didn’t come back?

She blinked heavily, trying to combat the tears that were stinging the corners of her eyes almost as much as the wind that whipped against her face stung. She had no use for tears; they would only serve to further slow her down.

As she reached the end of the long tunnel, the hallway branched into two different wings, and though the building was large, Violet knew that it wasn’t large enough. She was running out of places to turn. She chose the wing to the left, wondering if she would even be able to recognize an escape if she saw it, or if she only had the brain power to keep running until her legs gave out on her. She was just so tired.

Within a matter of paces, one more passageway stretched into view, this one narrower. She took the opportunity easily, hoping that this might be a way of doubling back, zig-zagging enough that she could disappear on them. Hide out. Eventually make her way back home. It was only after she had already turned to begin her descent down the hall did she realize just how much shorter it was than the ones she’d just been sprinting. In the process of skidding to a stop in order to keep herself from running into the wall that blocked her from her freedom, she felt her ankle roll out from under her, sending her sprawling to the marble tile. 

The wail that surely burst from her lips could not be heard in her own ears, completely drowned in the pain that roiled through leg, zapping up her spine, but she couldn’t stop to blubber. She glanced over her shoulder. Though she could not see their faces, she could feel the steady thudding of a dozen feet against the floor, moving ever closer. She realized, fear slowly dissolving into resignation in her veins, that even if they hadn’t seen her slip down this way, the echoing cry that still bounced off of the cold white walls would have alerted them to her.

She scrambled to her hands and knees, trying to push up onto her ankle, which was surely sprained if not broken, but as she jolted into a standing position, her body protested, and she tipped clumsily into the rough stucco of the wall. This time, she couldn’t blink away the plump tears in her eyes; they streamed down her face on their own accord, dribbling past her lips, salting her tongue.

She managed to hobble a step or two backwards, barely containing the whimpers, towards a door that led to what seemed like an empty office. Her heart jumped into her throat, effectively choking her with hope as she grabbed at the knob, knowing that this was her only chance. 

The silent prayer that had crossed her lips was answered; the momentum of her body against the door sent her flying as it swung inwards, the knob colliding with the wall on the other side and leaving a sizable hole in the plaster. 

She tried to steady herself from the sudden lurch, but could only wobble shakily towards the window on the other side of the room. Raw hands gripped frantically, desperately attempting to move the glass up and out of her way. It mattered very little what was on the other side; whether her feet found purchase directly beneath, or her body collided with the ground far below, anything would be better than whatever fate was following her. But even as she pulled, pushed, and eventually thrashed desperately against it, the thick glass would not make way for her. It stood its ground, finding no sympathy for her pleading.

In the recesses of her brain, which was far too oxygen deprived to fully focus, Violet thought to Samara. Sweet Samara. The reason she had come. The face that flashed behind her eyes was comforting, as was the thought that, had Samara been in the building, she had surely heard the commotion. If she was still alive, she would do the smart thing and seek asylum elsewhere. She’d always been clever. That’s why she’d made it this far. She’d be okay, and Violet was stupid to think she had ever needed saving. 

Morgan had been right. Morgan had been right and Violet had been wrong, and that fact would be the death of her. In any other case, Violet would’ve never lived it down - she was always right, something she always made sure of. It had even been in their vows, nestled in between the promises of ‘in sickness and in health,’ and ‘till death do we part.’ The irony. A hearty laugh would’ve billowed up from her belly and into her throat, had there been any air to keep it aloft. Instead, she could only hiccup pathetically.

Behind her, the pounding footsteps continued, and she could tell they were closing in now. Breath rushed and ragged, the taste of dizzying failure in her mouth, she turned to face her end. 

She had said her goodbyes to her wife and her brother, but had never intended for them to be her last. How she wished she could reach out for them now, kiss them, tell them all the wonderful things they needed to hear before she could no longer speak. She should’ve spent more time with them. She should’ve held them tighter and closer and longer. She should’ve stayed. She felt a guilt well up in her stomach, sitting right above the icy fear like oil on water. She was right to sit with it, knowing how she had damned them both with the selfishness and stubbornness of her actions, but even so, the regret would do none of them any real good. She could only perform one final act of love to keep them safe. 

A trembling hand slipped into the pocket of her jacket, which now felt heavy and suffocating on her shoulders, and where her fingers sought cold steel, they found nothing.

Nothing. 

Panic stabbed through her like a knife to her chest, sending her thoughts spiraling. She must’ve dropped it during her fall, but that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that she had no way to end it. No way to make her body unusable. If the worms got their hands on her…. Morgan, Danny. They wouldn’t see the silver behind her eyes until it was too late. They’d be too late. 

The image of them being swarmed by bodies of people they had known and trusted, bodies that were now empty shells void of any life besides the horrid puppeteers that sat behind their eyes, playing their carcasses on a string, only further served to blur Violet’s vision as her tear tracks turned into small rivulets down her flushed cheeks. She didn’t have time to dwell, though, and the image evaporated as she was confronted with the sounds of the footsteps that made their way down the very hall that she had loped through just moments before. 

She wasn’t going to wait around to become a sack of skin. 

Violet searched for something, anything of use, but there was no viable weapon in sight. The grubs had wiped the planet clean of anything even remotely dangerous, likely never having seen the irony of it. Not thinking clearly, just needing something in her hands to fend off the bloodsuckers until she could come up with some kind of a plan, Violet grabbed the nearest, heaviest thing: the four-legged metal chair that sat behind the office desk. 

As they closed in, she could see their figures approaching in the reflection of the glass window in the door. A shudder ran through her, her fight or flight responses firing off in her head only to meet a dead-end wall of panic as she flipped through her options - options which currently sat at zero. She had nowhere to run and no real method of attack. In the glass, they moved closer, their jog slowing to a crawl as they realized that the chase was over. The game was won. 

Unless…. 

With a grunt that seemed to stop the stalkers in their tracks, Violet hurled the chair over her shoulder, wielding it as a club, and metal met glass with an earth-shattering crash. She closed her eyes, bracing against the bits and pieces of shard as they danced through the air and scattered over the ground. She didn’t have time to waste as she dropped the chair and bent at the hip, grasping at the biggest, sharpest piece she could find, knowing that as soon as their shock wore off, they would be on her toes. And she was right.

The reflection of their eyes set fire to the marble floor of the hallway in brilliant kaleidoscopes as they edged closer, and she watched as six nervous faces rounded the corner, the silver gleaming in the sunlight from the window behind her as they held their hands up, as if they were the ones surrendering. Several mouths opened to speak, but she couldn’t make out the words they were saying, only that there sounded to be genuine concern in their soothing tones. 

She didn’t hold the glass out to them, didn’t threaten. There were too many of them, and these ones, the ones who hunted humans, always carried firearms. It wouldn’t matter if she jumped forward and took one down with her; the other five would still carry her off to her fate, and her memories would still carry them straight to Morgan and Danny. She still only had one option.

The moment the one in front, a smaller, rounded woman with a bobbed haircut and dark brown eyes, took a step forward, Violet made her peace. She didn’t hesitate to plunge the sharp point of the glass into the pale flesh of her inner wrist, dragging the edge up as she slashed through veiny blue. The worms jumped forward, shaking their heads and waving their hands, but they were too late. As the blood began flowing, thick and warm and tickling down the length of her arm, black spots clouded Violet’s vision from her peripherals inward. She was sure, with the way she was bleeding, they’d never have time to make it to a hospital. She’d be dead within minutes, if she’d done her job. She had to have done her job. Morgan and Danny were counting on her.

With what strength she had left, she used her other hand to drag the serrated edge up the inside of her other arm, just catching sight of the sticky puddle that had begun to pool at her feet before the black spots became black clouds became just black.

Lights flashed behind her eyelids for a few moments, the clamor of voices becoming just a clamor, and her body jolted, her heart unknowingly pumping the last of its life supply out of the open gashes in its flesh. She struggled to think of the people she had lived for - the people she was dying for - against the pull she felt dragging her downward, but as she sank, she couldn’t remember their names and couldn’t see their faces.