𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄, 𝐈

Detroit was a city of enveloping noise. Silence was never silence, especially in a world where quiet truly didn't exist. And yet, the twist and jangle and tug she did at the handle were what made the true essence of silence fall. Outside of metal scraping metal and metal grating concrete, noise was no longer a thing in the world.

This whole time, she hadn't been afraid. But now, she was struck with a terror she could barely fathom. Her arm was transfixed, hellbent on getting that refrigerator open, to help those poor, helpless children who had died in its little space. Hungry, hot, screaming, with only the company of each others' horror as they suffered a long, agonizing drag to their maker.

There was a metallic groan, the sound of the mechanism in the door finally giving way.

She took her hand and slipped it around the edge, creaking open the heavy door, the silence deafening, a colossal wall of cold marching toward her, severing the muggy air as the mother's howl became a distant, haunting memory. The children were not there.

No, Diana realized, that's no child.

It was her.

Older, crumpled there in that fridge, her body wry, black, and blue with bulging eyes and sagging skin. Disfigured and reeking, only recognizable by the prominent cheekbones and the hair.

A sharp, downward draft nipped at the back of her knees. She dropped, staring at her own decaying form, terror, mourning, and confusion so thick in her that when she opened her mouth, the only thing that came was the static hiss of a record player.

Her eyes peeled open.

White, popcorn ceilings focused into her vision.

She wasn't staring into the refrigerator at herself. She wasn't in the dumping grounds, in the Brewster-Douglass projects, or in Detroit. She was home in New York. Not where she last remembered—her bedroom vanity—but home nonetheless.

Her shaky hands traced her body. She was untwisted and full of fleshy brown life. Lithe arms, not bloated muscle, flexed to meet the tips of her fingers. Lace clung to her like cellophane, every inch of her body draped in a cold sweat. That explained the weather, the dream's shift from sultry summer to frigid winter. She wanted to laugh, but her heart was galloping in her chest. One false move and the room would tip.

When did it get so cold?

The bed sheets were tangled around her legs. She fought them away. Sitting was a struggle, but she did it, eventually landing on unsteady feet.

The record was still spinning. She walked those few paces, lifted the needle, and lowered herself to the floor. The corner of the sleeve for Meet the Supremes pricked her lower back. She pushed it aside, clearing the phlegm in her throat as she leaned her head against the wall.

No time to think. Her gown was sticking to the underside of her arm, the corners of her eyes felt glued shut, and the house felt like the Arctic.

Back on her feet, she threw on the thickest house robe she could find. In the bathroom, she wiped her face with a warm cloth. There was a slight tremble to her hands, but she ignored it, turning off the bathroom light and sailing out into the hallway.

The rest of the house was as still as she had left it, the living room included. Michael was still fast asleep, blanket thrown over his head, likely in some sleep-laden attempt to keep warm.