The Despair: Part 1

The sky—alien, warped, impossible—loomed above us, a portal into something primal and unknowable. It defied comprehension, and yet we stood rooted in place, helpless against the enormity of what was unfolding. Around us, pandemonium erupted. Shouts and cries wove into an unbearable cacophony as police fought to impose even a shred of order. People scattered like grains of sand caught in an unrelenting gale, driven by currents of panic with no clear direction.

Amid the chaos, Mom had vanished.

“Pick it up. Come on, Mom, pick up!” I muttered, the words trembling with urgency as I jabbed at her number on my phone. Again and again, the repetitive beeping of a failed connection hammered into my chest like a stone weight. She wasn’t answering. My fingers tightened around the device, knuckles white, as frustration threatened to spiral out of control. But I forced myself to breathe. There wasn’t time for that—not now. We had to act.

“Sissy, where’s Mommy?” Lumina’s small voice cracked through my resolve like glass shattering against pavement. Her wide, frightened eyes searched mine for answers.

“It’s going to be okay, Lumina,” I lied, willing steadiness into words I didn’t feel. “We’re going home. Mom will meet us there.”

Even as the assurance left my lips, the streets crumbled further into chaos. The subway was no longer an option—the city’s blackout had turned it into a dead end. All around, the world had shifted into a fractured, hollow shell of what it once was. Above us, faint flickers of light—distant echoes of the supernova—struggled to pierce the darkness. Their weak glow distorted familiar landmarks into a menacing landscape of shadows. Cold. Void.

And then came the voice—harsh, mechanical, and unrelenting—booming from loudspeakers and demanding attention.

[Under the emergency provisional act, all civilians are required to return to their homes immediately. Shelters will be provided for those unable to secure accommodations. Noncompliance will result in detainment.]

Massive military trucks roared through the streets, their towering frames casting ominous silhouettes against the dim sky. Megaphones blared as emergency response teams scrambled to regain control, their voices strained and urgent, trying to corral the chaos into submission. Some listened, retreating as ordered, but others resisted—shouts clashed with barked commands, tension boiled over, and scuffles broke out in the growing swell of unrest. The weight of fear, suffocating and inescapable, smothered reason in its relentless grip.

I glanced down at Lumina. She clutched Nutmeg tightly to her chest, the little creature burrowed deep in the crook of her arms as though the warmth of her embrace was a shield against the chaos outside. A pang of unease gnawed at my resolve, but I couldn’t let it break me. Not now. Not for her.

“Lumina, let’s go. We need to keep moving,” I said softly, nudging her forward with as much reassurance as I could muster. The weight of uncertainty pressed against me, heavy and unrelenting.

She didn’t respond. Her small face, usually so animated, was drawn with silent determination. She clung to Nutmeg as though he were a lifeline, his soft fur brushing against her cheek—her sole comfort in a world that had unravelled beyond recognition. As we walked, the city around us became unrecognizable, a distorted version of itself. Roads and landmarks I once knew felt foreign, as though I had stumbled into someone else’s dream. Or nightmare.

The walk home stretched endlessly, each step heavier than the last. My phone, a useless hunk of glass and metal without signal, taunted me with its faint glow, the time mocking my endurance: 6:23 PM. Nearly five hours. That’s how long we’d been walking. Exhaustion clung to us like a second skin, and with it came an oppressive unease that wove itself into every shadow, every sound—or lack thereof.

“Mommy... Daddy... We’re back home,” Lumina’s small voice broke the silence as I turned the key. The door creaked open, its sound unnaturally loud against the stillness that greeted us. The house stood empty, its silence heavy and alien, like a stranger’s home instead of our own.

I swallowed hard, trying to keep the rising dread at bay. Dad, I knew, wouldn’t be here—his business trip had taken him far from the chaos. But Mom... I had clung to the faint, fragile hope that she might have made it back before us. That hope splintered now, crumbling in the dim light of the empty entryway.

“Lumina,” I said, crouching down to meet her gaze. Her wide eyes shone with exhaustion and something deeper—something I couldn’t name but understood all too well. “There might still be some hot water left. Go and wash up with Nutmeg while I find some candles, okay?”

“But, Sissy... what about Mommy and Daddy?” Lumina’s voice trembled, each word wavering as she clutched Nutmeg tightly to her chest. The tiny hamster burrowed deeper into the crook of her arms, instinctively seeking refuge from the palpable distress in the air.

I hesitated, the tightness in my chest constricting painfully. Her fear was etched across her face, raw and unhidden, leaving me momentarily lost for words. Slowly, I reached out and ran my hand gently over her soft pink hair—a gesture that felt distant, almost alien after all these years. Between school, preparing for university, and chasing fleeting aspirations, I’d neglected the role of her big sister. And now, standing here in the suffocating darkness, those priorities seemed utterly meaningless.

“Remember, you’re a big girl now,” I said, forcing a smile that felt fragile and false, like a thread pulled taut against the weight of uncertainty. “Once Mom and Dad get home, everything will go back to normal. We’ll laugh about all this over a big meal together.”

The words echoed hollow in the silence, but they were enough to coax a flicker of ease into Lumina’s expression. She nodded faintly, her grip on Nutmeg loosening as her gaze brightened just a little. “Nutmeg, let’s wash up and try on the new pajamas Mommy got us!” she chirped, her voice carrying the faint spark of innocence she fiercely refused to surrender.

As I watched her shuffle down the hallway, the gnawing doubt refused to release its grip on me. The house around us, once a sanctuary of familiarity, now felt distant and hollow—a fragile shell of what it used to be.

While Lumina busied herself in the bathroom, I sank into the worn cushion of the living room couch. My flats slid off my aching feet, leaving my toes exposed to the icy touch of the floor. A sharp jolt of pain rippled through me, catching me off guard.

“Damn it,” I hissed softly, wincing as I flexed my toes gingerly. The throbbing in my feet was relentless, a tangible reminder of the gruelling hours we’d spent walking—an ache that felt almost punitive after the day’s ordeal.

But rest wasn’t an option. I pressed my hands against the armrests and pushed myself upright, grit locking my exhaustion firmly in place. There were more pressing matters to deal with. Dad loved camping in the summers—it was his escape from the grind of city life. If I could locate his gear, it might prove useful. The storage room, dimly lit and cramped, yielded treasures I hadn’t appreciated before. Items once deemed ordinary now carried a weight of survival.

“Sissy, the water’s really cold,” Lumina’s voice rang out, pulling me from my search. I turned toward her, blinking in surprise as she stood at the bathroom door, a towel draped over her damp hair. She was bundled snugly in the hamster onesie Mom had chosen, and perched atop her small shoulder was Nutmeg, surveying the scene like a regal monarch overseeing his tiny domain. The sight, absurd and endearing, almost made me laugh.

It was strange seeing her like this—quiet, composed. On any other day, she would have been throwing a tantrum, demanding that her hair be blow-dried and brushed to perfection, as spoiled and stubborn as a little princess. But today? Today, she seemed older. As though the unravelling of the world had peeled back layers of childhood, replacing them with quiet resolve.

“Hey, Pipsqueak,” I said, crouching down so my eyes met hers. “I’ve got a super important mission for you.”

Her wide, serious gaze locked onto mine, and for a moment, guilt surged through me. How long had it been since I’d last truly seen her like this? In my rush through essays, exams, and university applications, the time we’d spent together had dwindled into fleeting glances and half-finished conversations. And yet, here she was, her tiny shoulders weighed down by a burden she should never have had to bear.

“So, check this out,” I continued, pulling out the hand-crank generator I’d unearthed from Dad’s things. I held it up like a treasure, eager to inject some brightness into the moment. “This little gadget is pretty cool. It can charge the phone. So, once the phone system’s back, we can call Mom and Dad. While I’m in the bathroom, your mission—should you choose to accept it—is to crank this thing like your life depends on it. If they call, you’re in charge. Got it?”

“Aye aye, sir!” Lumina chirped, snapping a dramatic salute. Nutmeg, nestled firmly in her arms, seemed to mirror her enthusiasm with a tiny squeak, as if volunteering for duty.

The sight tugged at my lips, drawing out a small smile—perhaps the first real one all day. In a sea of uncertainty and fear, here was a glimpse of something pure and lighthearted. Their silly antics felt like a spark of the world we’d lost, and for just a moment, I allowed myself to hope.

Hobbling down the dimly lit hallway, I leaned heavily against the walls for support. Each step sent sharp reminders of the miles we’d endured. The cool surface of the wall beneath my palm steadied me as I finally reached the bathroom, my fingers fumbling to turn the faucet. The sound of rushing water filled the small space, its steady rhythm oddly soothing.

Lowering myself onto the edge of the bathtub, I slipped my battered feet into the water. A sharp sting shot through me, and I hissed through clenched teeth. “Really stings,” I muttered under my breath, biting my lip to keep from voicing the pain any louder.

Despite the discomfort, the cold water felt almost... refreshing. Like it wasn’t just washing away the day’s grime but scrubbing at something deeper—the weight I hadn’t realized had settled so heavily on my thoughts.

“Spin and spin and spin some more...” Lumina’s sing-song voice echoed faintly through the house, bright and determined. She was humming a tune I didn’t recognize, her words punctuated by the soft mechanical whir of the generator. It was such a small thing, but it filled the space with warmth. Her unshaken spirit grounded me, reminding me of what still mattered. It was enough to push the heaviness aside, if only for a moment.

When the sting of the cold had ebbed to a bearable dullness, I climbed out of the tub and wrapped myself tightly in a towel. My reflection in the mirror caught my eye, and I stilled. The girl staring back at me felt like a stranger, her face drawn, her hair unkempt, her eyes shadowed by exhaustion. Had it really been this morning that I’d looked into this same mirror, believing the day ahead would be nothing more than routine?

I turned away, shaking off the thought. There was no use lingering on what couldn’t be undone. Rummaging through the medicine cabinet, I pulled out ointments and gauze. My movements were slow, deliberate, each wrap around my bruised feet an unspoken promise to myself—to keep moving forward, to keep holding on.

“Mom. Dad. Please... come home already...” The words left my lips in a whisper so soft, I wasn’t sure I’d spoken at all. Anything louder felt like it might shatter the fragile hope I clung to.