On the tenth day of the zombie siege, I leave the last protein bar for my husband and walk out of the safe house alone. A horde of zombies tackles me. Teeth and hands tear into my flesh. The pain is so intense I think it might kill me. Then I hear the snap of a clapperboard. “Cut! Good take. Extras, take five!” The zombies scatter in an instant. The safe house door swings open behind me. My husband, Damien Blackwell, steps out. Selene Hart, Hollywood’s newest It girl, comes laughing from behind a half-collapsed fake storefront. “Damien, you’re a genius!” she laughs. “You faked the apocalypse, and she actually bought it.” Damien sneers. “She tried to sabotage your audition behind our backs. I wanted her to feel desperate for once. Maybe now she’ll learn.” I lie on the ground and watch the extras pull off their zombie masks. Tears slide into the blood at my lips. What they don’t know is that I hate pain more than anything. So before I walked out of the safe house, I drank paraquat. I drank paraquat, a restricted-use herbicide with no antidote. Once it’s in your system, your lungs scar over until you suffocate. When I finally regain consciousness, I feel weightless. I hover in the air. I look down. The unmasked “zombies” drip with sweat. They pass around bottled water and joke around. “Holy shit, I’m roasting in this suit. But Mr. Blackwell pays well—way better than working as an extra on a real set!” “No kidding. Mr. Blackwell rented out the entire backlot just to cheer Miss Hart up!” I see it now: there is no outbreak, no apocalypse, just ten staged days of fear and starvation. Staged by my husband for his college sweetheart. He rented an abandoned LA studio lot and hired a hundred extras. I look down at the “me” on the ground. White foam has dried around my mouth. My eyes bulge from the pain. My fingernails claw bloody lines into the concrete. Damien walks over with an iced Americano. He nudges my leg with his expensive loafer. “That’s enough, Aria. We’re done here. Get up.” I don’t move. I can’t. Selene loops her arm through his and lowers her voice into something soft and practiced. “Damien, Mrs. Blackwell is quite the actress. She’s probably too embarrassed to face us.” “When she gave you her last protein bar and walked out to die, I almost shed a tear.” Damien scoffs. Pure disgust flashes in his eyes. “Everything with her is a performance. She just wants my attention.” “She crossed a line when she tried to ruin your audition!” “Aria only hears you when it hurts.” Selene covers her mouth and giggles. “Oh, come on. I’m not even that mad anymore.” Damien doesn’t even spare me a glance. He pulls Selene toward the exit. “Let her rot on the ground and think about what she did. Leave two guards. Once she apologizes, haul her back to the Malibu estate.” The heavy iron gates of the backlot slam shut. The lock clicks. I want to scream. I want to ask him what the hell is wrong with him. But I am already a ghost. An unseen force yanks me back. Like a heavy chain strapped to my chest. It drags me straight into the backseat of Damien’s Rolls-Royce Ghost. He sits in the driver’s seat. One hand rests on the steering wheel. Selene sits shotgun. She touches up her lipstick in the vanity mirror. “Damien, I start shooting tomorrow. The director says we need a new location…” “Take whatever you need. Any property owned by the company.” Selene leans over and pecks his cheek. “Damien, you’re so good to me. Everything with Aria has to become an ordeal.” Damien tugs at his silk tie and says nothing. But something strange flickers in his eyes—gone before I can even name it. “We just left Aria out there alone. What if something happens?” Selene applies another layer of lip gloss, her voice soft and sugary. Damien snorts. “There are guards everywhere. What could possibly happen? She’s been spoiled rotten—she can’t handle even the smallest setback.” “But… she threw up so much blood.” “Fake blood, obviously. You know she’s a drama queen. She’d do anything for attention.” Damien slams on the gas. “Forget her. Let her starve for a day. That will shut her up.” “Give her a day or two. She always comes back and apologizes.” I float in the backseat, staring at the back of his head. Damien Blackwell has no idea that behind that locked gate, my body is already lying there. He will never hear my voice again.
The backlot lights click off, one by one. The terrifying “zombie siege” looks pathetic in the dark—no screaming extras, no dramatic lighting, just cheap plastic props and half-finished sets sagging under the dry California wind. I float back to my body. The night guards start their final patrol. Flashlight beams sweep across the fake ruins. “Hey, we’ve got someone still here.” One of the guards swings his flashlight over. The beam lands on me. The other guy walks over. He kicks the sole of my shoe. “Hey! Wake up! We wrapped hours ago. You can’t sleep here. Get back to the lounge!” I don’t react. The guard crouches. He hesitates. Reaches out and presses two fingers against my neck. A second passes, then another. He jerks his hand back and scrambles to his feet. “Ahhhhhhh!” A scream rips through the night. The kind that comes from the bottom of the throat. “She’s dead! Call 911! We got a dead body!” The guard stumbles and sprints toward the gate. Sirens wail. Flashing red and blue lights soon wash over the fake ruins. EMTs lift me onto a stretcher. One peels back my eyelids and checks my pupils. Then he shakes his head. “No vitals. She’s already in rigor.” Crime scene techs bag the evidence. They pry a tiny bottle from my clenched fist. A brown plastic vial. The label is half peeled off. But the EPA warning sign is still visible. “Paraquat?” A cop frowns and drops it into an evidence bag. “Restricted-use herbicide. Where the hell did she get this?” “Could be suicide. Run her ID. Notify the next of kin.” Meanwhile, Damien pulls into his Malibu estate. His phone suddenly rings. The screen lights up. An unknown local number. Caller ID says County Sheriff’s Department. He glares at the screen and hits decline. Two seconds later. The same number rings again. He snatches the phone off the dash. Tosses it into Selene’s lap. “Handle it. I don’t have time for this!” Selene nods politely. She swipes the screen and kills the call. Her eyes dart in thought. She opens his contacts. Pulls up “Aria”. Hits block without missing a beat. I hover in the backseat. Watching her fingers tap the screen. Smooth. Effortless. Like she’s been dying to do this for years. The Malibu estate. Damien just gets out of the shower. A towel wrapped around his waist. His phone buzzes. A text notification has been filtered into the spam folder. He picks it up. Frowns. Moves to tap it. Selene snatches it right out of his hand. “Damien, go dry your hair! I got this!” She unlocks the screen. Scans the message. [URGENT: Aria Blackwell declared deceased at 4:14 PM. Suspected cause: Paraquat poisoning (Suicide). Next of kin must report to the County Medical Examiner’s Office to identify the body.] Selene’s hand jerks. The phone nearly slips from her hand, barely missing the marble floor. Aria is actually dead? She stares hard at those words. Shock flickers across her face, then disappears. By the time she looks up again, her expression is smooth, but something brighter has already taken its place. She hits delete with no hesitation. Deleted Items. Trash. “Aria begging for forgiveness?” Damien asks, towel-drying his hair. “Nothing important!” Selene tosses the phone onto the table. Her smile is perfect again. “Just spam. Want me to dry your hair, babe?” Damien steps back, dodging her touch. “No. Get some sleep. I’m heading to the office. Stay here for a few days. I won’t be back.” He stops at the door. “Let me know when the location shoot is done. I’ll send a crew to clean up. Otherwise, that psycho Aria’s gonna throw another fit when she comes home!” I hover near the ceiling. Watching the whole thing play out. I always knew Selene was pure poison. Knew it from day one. But Damien, he just gave away my home. The house I decorated with my own hands. Let another woman move right in. And called me a psycho! I reach for a breath and find nothing. The good thing about being dead? Nothing hurts anymore. Emotions are trapped behind thick glass. You see the fire burning. But you don’t feel the heat. Just like that. I vanished twice in one day. First, my body died on that cold concrete floor. Second, Selene deleted the last proof I was still expected anywhere.
Three whole days. I haven’t come home. Or at least, the “me” they still think is alive hasn’t. I haven’t called anyone else, either. Damien sits on the leather sofa. His face is a thundercloud, ready to snap at any second. A bottle of Macallan 25 sits empty on the coffee table. The crystal ashtray overflows. He rarely smokes. Now the ashtray is overflowing. Rosa walks over with a breakfast tray. She sets it down carefully. “Mr. Blackwell, please eat something.” Damien slaps the coffee mug off the table. Ceramic shatters against the marble floor. Dark liquid splashes everywhere. “Where is Aria? Has she called? Texted? Anything?” he asks through gritted teeth. Every word drips with venom. Rosa trembles. The tray rattles in her hands. “No… Mrs. Blackwell hasn’t reached out. Maybe you should call her?” “Me? Call her? In her dreams!” Damien points at the walk-in closet. “Clear out her closet. All of it. Let’s see how long she can play tough!” Rosa doesn’t dare argue. She grabs garbage bags. She hauls them out, one trip at a time. She stops when she reaches the terrace. An orchid stands there. A rare Dendrobium orchid. Potted in simple clay. Green leaves. Strong roots. Damien planted it himself. On the night he proposed. He said, “Aria, orchids are the hardest things to keep alive. They need perfect light, perfect water and perfect temperature. One mistake and they die.” “That’s what finding you felt like.” “As long as this flower lives, we will never part.” And then, somewhere along the way, he changed his mind. But the flower just kept growing. Watering it was my first chore every morning. Rotating the pot. Wiping the leaves. In five years, it bloomed only twice. Tiny white flowers. With a soft scent I could barely catch. “This too?” Rosa asks softly, glancing back at him. “Trash it! Throw out everything she touched! I don’t want to see a trace of her in this house!” CRASH! The pot is shoved off the balcony railing. It smashes against the patio stones. Shattered into pieces. Soil. Roots. Five years of my care. Gone in one second. Floating in mid-air, I stare at the broken stem lying in the clay shards. Nothing reaches me in time. Not even this. Just then, the front door opens. Selene walks in. She is wearing a long ivory coat. I freeze. It was for our first anniversary. Damien flew to Paris and had a couture house make it just for me. The only one in the world. I could barely bring myself to wear it. It hung in the back of my closet. Kept safe in a dust bag. She dug it out. She’d even had the waist taken in to fit her. Damien freezes too. His eyes lock onto the coat. He frowns and swallows hard. “That coat…” Selene glides over. She loops her arm through his. Her voice is breathy and sweet. “Damien, I have a massive premiere event tonight. I had nothing to wear in the closet. So I borrowed one of Mrs. Blackwell’s. She won’t mind, right?” He looks at the coat a beat too long. Then his face closes. “It’s a coat, Selene. Wear it if you want.” His voice turns icy. “Thank you, Damien!” They walk toward the foyer. Selene catches something out of the corner of her eye. A battered leather suitcase sits by the hallway closet. It’s my memory box, packed with photos from my childhood, college, and wedding, along with the only thing my mother ever left me. An old locket, dark with age. Inside is a thumb-sized photo. The woman looks exactly like me. But her smile is so much brighter. Taken when my mom was twenty-three. She passed away at twenty-five. That locket was the only piece of jewelry she ever owned. “Oops. Why is this out here?” She nudges the suitcase with the pointed toe of her heel—too hard to be accidental. The suitcase tips over. Everything spills across the floor. Photos scatter down the hall. The locket rolls out, bouncing twice on the marble. And then, CRACK! A tiny sound. The locket snaps open and breaks into three pieces. The hinges shatter. The photo inside slips out and lands face down. I lunge forward. I reach out, desperate to catch it. My fingers pass right through the broken pieces. Through her. Through everything. I can’t hold anything anymore. Mom. That was the last thing Mom left me. The only proof she ever existed. Damien glances down at the broken pieces. Annoyance flashes in his eyes. “Rosa. Sweep that garbage out!” Rosa drops to her knees. Her hands shake as she gathers the pieces. Her tears hit the marble. “Sir… that belonged to Mrs. Blackwell’s mother. It was the only thing she had left of her. If she comes home and sees this…” “She’s out partying but not coming home!” Damien roars. “Throw it all out! Put it in the outside bins! And tell her that if she doesn’t come back now, she shouldn’t come back at all!” My ghost crouches beside the broken pieces. I watch Rosa cry. She uses a dustpan to scoop up the shattered pieces. My mother breaks across his marble floor, and the only word he has for her is garbage.
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