My name is Ashley Madison, and tonight will be the last night I will ever exist.
Some would be upset by this
knowledge. Others would completely break down. Many would ultimately do
something unspeakable. But tonight, I only have one goal in mind:
I want to live as long as I can.
So, on this last night, I prepare
for the party of a lifetime—or, more appropriately, the end of our lifetimes.
My makeup done. My black dress
on. My red heels strapped to my feet. My ash-blonde hair cascades in the gust
cast from the floor fan that stands near my vanity, and for a moment, I wonder
if it will be breezy, on this last night on the planet Earth.
Then, I ask myself:
“Does it matter?”
I decide it doesn’t by applying a
thin layer of pink lip gloss, and turn my attention to the clock at my side.
It is currently 4:55. This leaves
me approximately thirty to make it to the party, which begins at six o’clock
sharp. There will be music. Dancing. A celebration of the lives we’ve lived,
and the ones we will never get the chance to.
The asteroid is coming.
Scientists say it will wipe out
most life on planet Earth.
I consider this reality with the
weight of the world on my shoulders—with the weight of every existential crisis
and dread I could have ever dreamed of experiencing. The fact is: my life—our lives—will be cut short. And it’s
all because the scientists made a mistake.
One tiny, little mistake.
The asteroid was never meant to
get so close. Never meant to change its direction, or even its overall
trajectory. It will bypass us completely,
the scientists had said. It will not hit
the planet, they had said.
Unfortunately, they were wrong,
and there is absolutely nothing we can do to stop it.
Nothing.
Some have turned to looting to
live their final opulent hours, others rioting in protest for the lies that we
have been told. A choice few have succumbed to violence.
Then there are some who could not
handle the pressures bearing down upon them.
I don’t know what happened to my
parents. Where they went. What they planned on doing. All I know is that they
left one morning without leaving a note, and I have been alone since.
Hence: the party.
You’re going to be late, a part of me says, if you do not hurry.
This is the knowledge that spurs
me to rise from my place at my vanity, that makes me consider the cell phone at
my side, whose service has been spotty for the past week as the world has
descended into chaos. I can barely make a call without the line disconnecting.
Thankfully, messaging still works.
After swiping my cell from its
place on the ottoman in my room, I flick through my apps and then contacts
until I find my best friend’s name.
Nick.
Oh sweet, sweet Nick. If only we’d
had more time.
I take a moment to swallow down
my pride before texting, Are you ready?
Many long, painful moments later,
he replies, Meet you outside in five.
And thus begins our last night.
* * *
The last night of Planet Earth is
cool. A breeze whispers through our small neighborhood in Southern Texas,
prompting a thankful sigh from my lips. My short, close-fitting strapless dress
would have normally drawn unwelcome looks from neighbors, but at this hour, no
one will say anything. The end is going to come eventually anyway. Who cares if
a girl wears a nice dress on the last night of her life?
“Hey!” a voice calls. “Ashley!”
I turn my head to regard my best
friend, Nick Kauffman—who, at six-foot-one, towers over me by at least seven
inches. His broad shoulders and muscled arms only add to his imposing physique,
but Nick is a sweetheart. Always has been—
Never will be again, I think.
I instinctively smile even
through all the pain and trauma I’ve experienced over the past week, and move
to approach him, careful not to stop onto the jagged crack that separates us
like a great continental divide.
“You look nice,” I say.
“You, too,” he says.
We stare at each other for
several long moments, as if waiting for one or the other to say something more,
something that might bridge this gap of silence. When Nick doesn’t speak—and
when I find I can’t—I merely turn my head in search of the steady whoomp whoomp whoomp of the music coming
from Cynthia Sinclair’s house down he road.
“Are we ready?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
We start forward, then, backs
ramrod straight, eyes set ahead. Around
us, other teens and young adults emerge homes and then begin to make their way
down the street. A few cars roll down the road—some with guys whooping and
hollering, others with girls cheering and jeering.
I hear someone yell, “Hey, Ashley Madison! Have a beer!”
Then a bottle lands somewhere
nearby, and shatters into a million pieces.
I blink as I consider the
action—as I contemplate the near-assault.
Nick says, “You’re sure you want
to go?”
And I immediately answer by
saying, “Yeah. I do. They’re just drunk kids anyway. It’s not like we can
expect everyone to take this well.”
“Are you taking it well?” Nick asks.
I don’t want to answer. For that,
I simply reach down, take hold of his hand, and say, “Let’s go.”
At first, he doesn’t move—maybe
because he’s shocked that I’m touching him, or for some other reason I can’t be
sure of. His mouth is open in a silent o,
his eyes are wide, his fingers tightening in mine.
Thankfully, Nick eventually
moves; and within moments, falls into place beside me.
Hand-in-hand, we continue to make
our way toward Cynthia Sinclair’s house at the end of the lane.
“What do you think?” Nick asks as
the music becomes progressively louder. “We gonna stick together?”
“I don’t want to get separated,”
I say. “Or drink anything they might be offering.”
“Don’t want the buzz?”
“More like don’t want the drugs,” I reply.
He frowns, but nods all the same.
“I understand.”
“Nick,” I say, stopping not far
from where the sidewalk begins to curve around the last house at the end of the
lane. I swallow the lump that’s developing in my throat and lift my eyes to
face him.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Don’t leave me tonight. Please.”
“I won’t,” he says.
He tightens his hold on my hand.
Squeezes my fingers.
Then, a moment later, we start
toward Cynthia Sinclair’s family home.
* * *
The Sinclair Mansion, as it is
usually called, is not really a mansion.
Mostly, it’s called that by our neighbors because it’s the largest house on our
road, and because Cynthia’s father, Robert Sinclair, owns a family business
that’s grown his ego just as much as it has his wallet. Still—Cynthia is nice,
and she’s invited everyone on this block to attend her blockbuster end of the world party.
“You think her dad’s here?” Nick
asks as we step up toward the front door.
“Cynthia’s?” I ask, and laugh.
“You really think Robert Sinclair is
going to be here, when he could be on
his yacht with however many women? Besides—” I nod as a few guys from our school
turn their heads to look at me “—I doubt he’d want to hang out with a bunch of
teenagers.”
“Makes sense,” Nick says.
We step into the awe-inspiring
living room of the Sinclair family home, whose overhead smart-light fixtures
pulse in a rainbow of colors to the beat of electronica music. Around us,
people stand talking, laughing, dancing. A fountain spouts red punch, and a
number of wine and alcohol bottles are already lined up on a bar, at which
Cynthia Sinclair is serving her greedy party-goers.
She spots us immediately. Nick!”
she calls. “Ashley! I’m so glad you came.”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the
world,” Nick replies.
She giggles. “The world,” she
says, then giggles again. “The world.”
She is undoubtedly high, though
on what I can’t be certain.
She points a bottle of wine
toward the two of us and giggles once more. “You want a drink?”
“No,” I say. “We don’t.”
“Aww, come on! What’s a party
without a little drink?”
“We’re fine, Cindy.”
The girl pouts, but says, “Fine,”
then adds, “I’m glad you guys came. No one deserves to be alone tonight.”
There isn’t much more to say.
Hardly anything to do. Everything to think. It is for that reason that I take
hold of Nick’s hand, and carefully begin to weave him through and around the
various party-goers.
“Where are we heading?” Nick
asks.
“Out back,” I say. “Near the
pool.”
“They have a pool?”
I don’t say anything. Rather, I
keep moving us forward, ever so stalwartly leading us on with the intent of
people on a mission, though what mission that is I can’t be for certain. All I
know is that, come time we step outside—and come time we take note of the
people in the pool, laughing and drinking and having the time of their lives, I
guide Nick to the edge of the porch, whereat I seat myself on the edge of the
raised concrete surrounding it.
Nick hesitates a moment, but
settles into the place beside me a short moment later. “You didn’t want to be
alone tonight,” he says. “Did you?”
I don’t respond. My eyes are lost
to the distance—to the sky and all the flickering stars in it.
“You didn’t care about the
party,” Nick continues after a moment of hesitation. “You just wanted to be
around people. To feel alive.”
“Alive,” I say, and find myself
laughing not long after. “I’m sure how alive
I really am right now, all things considering.”
“Is it because of your parents
leaving? The asteroid coming? Or is it because—”
“The future is no longer going to
happen?” I ask.
He appears to wait for me to
speak—likely to say something, anything
to reveal my true emotions. The fact is: I don’t know what to say. My thoughts are dark, my heart along with them.
I wanted so desperately to come
to this party—to dance the night away and forget everything that was going to
happen. Now that I’m here, though…
I can’t help but feel lost.
What am I to do, I wonder, on
the last night of my life?
I told myself that I’d go out
living—that I’d go out having fun. But no matter how much I want to admit it, a
part of me wishes I hadn’t woken up
today, and that I hadn’t had to wait
and anticipate in cruel and horrific fashion the end of the world.
Nick stares at me. I know he
wants to say something. I can instinctively feel it. I am also aware that he is
just as conflicted as I am.
I ask, “What did your parents
think about you coming here?”
And he replies by saying, “They didn’t want
you to be alone.”
“And they were okay with that?”
“I don’t think they’re okay with
anything, Ash. I mean… they might not have run off like your parents did, but
they… they’re gone in a different sense.”
He doesn’t have to explain. Being
Christian, Nick’s parents believe in an afterlife. But me? I’m not so sure.
Because deep down, I can’t help
but wonder if there should have been a sign.
A sign to step back. To ponder,
maybe pray.
Sighing, I turn my head to look
into the sky once more.
“You don’t have to be scared,”
Nick says.
“Please don’t say anything
about—”
“Living on after we die?” Nick
shakes his head. “I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
He shakes his head once more. “No.
I’m not. Because that isn’t right, to force what I feel on you, especially when
you’re not sure.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to be
sure, Nick. It’s just—”
“What?”
“I wish we’d had more time.”
“I know you do. So do I.”
A flickering countenance appears
in the sky over our heads—and like dumb birds drawn to the rain, everyone in
the vicinity turns their heads to look at the sky.
“I guess this is it,” I whisper.
Nick takes hold of my hand. “Ash?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s okay to be scared of what
comes next. I am, too.”
“It just seems like it was all
for nothing,” I say.
“It wasn’t all for nothing,” he
replies. “Because we lived.”
Tears bud at my eyes. Mascara
runs down my face.
I whisper only two words:
“Thank you.”
I do not hear his response.
All I can hear, in the final
moments of my life, is Nick’s voice in my head.
All I can hear is: We lived.