Fogged In

The forecast called for clear skies. You find that statement to contain a good deal of irony in retrospect.

The wall of smoke pressing against the opposite side of the window obfuscates your view. Rapping your waiflike digits across the window, you unintentionally dirty your fingertips from the thin coating of dust. It has been a few days since the smoke rose from the earth, and since then, you’ve kept the ventilation off. Additionally, any openings to the outside have been blocked with duct tape or wooden planks. One can never be too careful.

It’s strange, thinking about how the only thing keeping you apart from the smoke is a thin pane of glass. The entire situation is unbearably tenuous for most of the city, but for you, it’s hard to muster up any reaction aside from a blasé indifference.

Your husband knocks on the door.

“Dinner’s ready,” he says with the minimum amount of emotion.

You tell him you’ll be there soon, that you just need to wrap up a few things with your painting. That’s a lie, of course. You haven’t gotten any work done today, nor several days prior. You were hoping for more interesting weather, something to inspire a few Grandma Moses-style pieces of art, but lacking an adequate visual reference, you’ve been in a creative slump.

In recent months, your studio has gradually metamorphosed from a place of productivity to a comforting escape. You, like a dragon, ensconce yourself among your mountainous horde of art supplies, that oily paint smell enrapturing you in its tight grasp, as if beckoning for you to stay just a little longer. It feels safe. It’s good.

Outside, someone’s scream rips you from your daze. It’s probably some poor fool that couldn’t stand being cooped up any longer and thought they could survive the fog. No use losing sleep over him. Judging by the fog’s thick consistency, it doesn’t seem like it’s going to dissipate anytime soon, meaning that there will likely be many more impatient fools within the following days that will experience a similar fate.

You exit the room and instantly detect a light smoky stench waft through the area. Mark must have picked up smoking again. You know it’s a nasty habit and wish he’d stop, but since it’s such a stressful time, you allow it.

Passing by your son’s room, you hear the radio, one of the few electronics that still works. The loss of your wireless connection must’ve been hard on him most of all. Before this started, if Francis wasn’t playing one of his games or smoking weed from the stash he thinks you don’t know about, he was screwing around on the internet. You’ve never understood him. You imagine he won’t be coming to dinner, and like usual, your husband probably slid his meal under the door already. You don’t knock to check on him because it’s a stressful time. He needs his space.

Dinner passes by uneventfully. Taking a bite from your salad, you wonder if the milk will last until all of this blows over. Mark doesn’t say anything, which is for the best, and after finishing, you do the dishes as he retreats to the living room to read – likely Christie or King. With the power off, it’s not like he has many other options to kill time. Washing the dishes, you note how these lugubrious moments have subtly affected your sense of time, blending the days into one another to the point where you can’t tell if it’s been three days or three weeks since this whole thing started.

With everything else taken care of, you spend the remainder of the evening scrutinizing your blank canvas, waiting for inspiration that you know won’t come.

At half-past eleven, you do the same thing with the bathroom mirror after washing off – gaze into it. Your cynical side takes over, and you make a sardonic comment about how you’ve been staring at a lot of worthless things lately. You can hear Mark snoring from the other end of the hall. He’s asleep; his routine is easy to predict.

Your own routine is slightly more unconventional.

After turning the knob three times to make absolutely certain that the door is locked, you reach for the duct tape blocking the handle to the bathroom window, then slowly rip it off, making as little noise as possible. The view outside reminds you of airplane rides when you go through a cloud. The smoke is still as strong as when it started. A part of that worries you, but a greater part is frustrated because you know that this whole situation would be better if they weren’t trapped in the house with you.

You push those unhealthy thoughts away and lift the window open, just a half a centimeter and only for a second, but that’s more than enough time for a small cloud of smoke to pass through, roughly the size of a bowling ball. Acting quickly, you plunge your head into the smoke and inhale. It feels like you’re breathing microscopic icicles, but this is the only way that you can feel happy nowadays. For one moment every night, you forget the last twenty years, the paths you’ve chosen during that time, and the utter dread that this pitiful life of yours is all you have left.

Smiling, you retrieve the scissors from the medicine cabinet and, with an unsteady gait, head to your bedroom. Now comes the second part of your nightly ritual.

Mark is a heavy sleeper, so he doesn’t stir in the slightest as you gingerly shut the door behind you. Picturing yourself as a cat burglar, you giddily tiptoe to the far corner of the room. There, you know that, unless the lights are on, he won’t notice you, even if he wakes up. You brandish your scissors. If the moonlight could penetrate the fog, it would no doubt create a refulgent shine.

You can’t remember the last time you felt truly close to him, when, in times of distress, he would cloister you in his tight embrace and repeat in hushed whispers that everything will be okay. The fact that the man in your memories and the man in your bed were one in the same gnaws away at you, and from the pit of your stomach, you feel a familiar emotion develop.

Contempt.

You take one deliberate step after another, steadily inching closer to him. Opening a window would be quicker and easier, but no, that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t carry the same weight as doing it yourself. You stand over him, and after watching for a few minutes, you step away.

You’re still in enough control of your faculties to know how bad it would be to go through with it.

You don’t know why you do this every night. You don’t want to hurt him, even though you don’t love him. You only have yourself to blame for your colorless life, but every time you feel confident enough to definitively break things off, you backpedal. You say it’s just for the sake of convenience, but really, you don’t know why you stay with him.

You need to go. It would be bad if someone found the duct tape torn off in the bathroom, but as you prepare to leave, you see that the door is slightly ajar.

Francis is poking his head in. Those eyes of his. Even in the dark, you can feel those lifeless fisheyes probe you. You’re still holding the scissors.

You almost call out his name but stop in fear of waking Mark. Francis tucks his head away and shuts the door. The whole scene is so surreal. To steady your heart, you conclude that it’s just the smoke affecting you, making you see things that aren’t really there.

You return to the bathroom, reapply the duct tape, turn off all the lights, then join your husband in bed.

***

You’re up unusually early the following day, the windows no longer showing smoke but darkness. As the thick bacon smell from the gas stove travels all the way to your room, you deduce it’s approximately six in the morning. Again, Mark’s schedule runs like clockwork. But as hungry as you are, food is the last thing on your mind.

You need to get out, even if it’s only for a minute.

On the way out, you hear the radio again from your son’s room. It seems like he’s been listening to it whenever you’re nearby. Today, you decide to check on him. If he did see you last night, it would be best to clarify things sooner rather than later.

You continue past the kitchen, asking Mark if it’s safe outside in a way that probably sounds forced. He merely grunts, which you interpret as approval, and head out.

The fresh morning breeze hits you instantly. It’s chilly, but you don’t mind. After so many days living in stagnant air, the feeling of being outside is intoxicating. You walk down the cobblestone path leading away from the house in your bare feet, eventually veering off the path to feel the crisp dew on the lawn.

When you reach the tree planted near the sidewalk, the air changes. Suddenly, it isn’t cold, nor is it hot. If you are to describe how it feels, you’d liken it to a vacuum. You turn your head and, on the second floor of your house, see that the light is on in your son’s room.

He’s in there right now, staring at you.

You can’t make out his distinct features, but from his silhouette, you can tell that he looks gaunter compared to when you last saw him.

You look away on instinct, back to the darkness. It looks different, and you, in the same moment, realize that it shouldn’t be this hard to see in front of you. That’s when it clicks.

The smoke never left. It just turned black, and it’s moving closer to you.

From behind, the heavy smog has already started to encircle you.

You bolt back toward the house. This new smoke is slower and closer to the ground, but it’s still fast enough to make a wall blocking you from your safety. You hold your breath, shut your eyes, and use your arms to cover your face as you barrel through the smoke. Some of the exhaust-like fumes slip past the openings and stream into your mouth, nostrils, ears, and eyes. Breaking through the smog wall, you sprint back inside, slamming the door shut behind you before much can come in. Now, the smoke is pressed tightly against the glass door, almost like it’s mad that it isn’t allowed entry. The meagre amount that did manage to pass the threshold dissipates quickly. You immediately collapse.

Mark is standing in the kitchen, looking right at you.

“You were outside?” he says.

You nod, still out of breath from the endeavor.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You explain that you did tell him.

Then, something strange happens. He turns the stove off, wiping his hands on his pants, then makes his way to you, slowly and deliberately. Studying his face, he looks like he’s in pain. He reaches down to you, still on the floor, and lifts you tenderly, like one would with a small child. You didn’t realize you were still shaking, so you try to stop. He takes you in, and whispers to you with his warm breath.

“It’s okay. It’s over now.”

But despite everything, you can’t smile. You know deep down that it isn’t over. There have never been any reports of the smoke changing like this. What happens next is anybody’s guess.

You wonder if he did know you left. Could he have wanted to end things quickly for you, a sort of indirect mercy killing? Or maybe, did he just want you out of the picture so he could live longer?

Francis. He might’ve told his father what he saw last night. They want to kill you. Why else wouldn’t Francis do anything when he saw you were in danger? He would know about the fog changing. He has the radio.

You didn’t realize it, but you had begun to dig your nails into Mark’s back. How dare he play with you like this. Blocking out your fear, you ask him if you can go into the bathroom with him and continue in there. He asks why, and you tell him there’s a surprise in there.

It’s evil. You are all one another have, and he betrayed you.

***

You leave the bathroom covered in blood. You hold the scissors tight in your fist, as they’ve gotten slippery. Carefully, you shut the bathroom door behind you, leaving Mark. You wished he was quieter. You take one squelching step after another, leaving a distinct trail of maroon footprints in your wake, stopping when you reach Francis’ room.

You knock on his door. Nothing.

You do it again, this time more loudly, with more force behind each strike. You call his name out. You’re prepared to leave to retrieve the spare key to his room, but when you test his doorknob, you find that it’s unlocked.

Your son’s room is a sad, dark little hovel, the only illumination emanates from a lava lamp on his bedside table. The floor is littered with old magazines and Satanic albums. However, at the foot of his bed, there lay a single set of neatly folded clothes. You call out his name again, no longer shouting. The radio blares a message.

Hear me, followers of the holy smoke! Things have changed! Through the cosmic alchemy of our sacred diviner, our saving mist has transmuted into something greater! Our time is at hand!

It’s too dark in his room. At the far end, where his window would be, there is a low hum that sounds like steam. You back away.

The end of times is near. You, my loyal listeners, have two options, the way I see it. One, you can die, become another victim to the sacred diviner’s wrath. Two, you can become a martyr, a shining example of our faith. Follow the ritual! Become one with the fog…

He had opened the window.

As the smog advances, you reach out for a hand to hold, but nobody is there.

Hear me, followers of the holy smoke! Things have changed! Through the…