The Beginning of the End

The towers of the city stretched above me as I walked in the middle of the unused streets, its white dashed lines painted down the center of it, but there was honestly no use for them. Skyscrapers as far as the eye could see, the sun’s light glaring off of it and into my eyes. It twists and turns above me, crumbling at the seams.

I flex my fingers, swinging at my sides, as I walk down what seems to be a never ending street. I can see so far down into the city, the street rising into the air and turning as the world twists up. It almost seems to shift the more I walk down the street, my perception of things altering as I keep up with everything. It was normal, for the most part. 

No cars lined the streets, only empty buildings and the whistling of the wind as I walked around. This world is abandoned. I travel up the road, and if I look up enough, I can see where I just was, the tops of the skyscrapers within reach. If I tried, if I dared, to shift my world view and jump off the road, I would land on one of those enormous buildings.

And yet between all that, there was a sense of urgency in the air. I was trying to get to the capital at the center of the city, its top, the spire, just barely touching the road above it. There was a meeting taking place there, a gathering of Makers like myself. Unfortunately, this is not my own creation. If it were my own creation, I would just manipulate the structures around me, making it take me to my destination at a far quicker rate, or possibly even make something entirely new. I didn’t like the cracking skys or the giant towers. I liked things to be linear and neat. 

The capitol building was nicknamed the Spiral. It had a spiral like texture on the stone, a sort of liquid like factor but solid when touched. It was like putting glass over the ocean, where you can still see the surface breaking beneath you but remain untouched by the foam. The front doors were made of pure gold, ancient and round. I don’t think it’s really real gold, but for arguments sake everyone just agrees that it is real gold, engraved with sigils of protection.

I could see it from here, the spire reaching towards the heavens only to meet the road once again. It’s golden spires reflect off the sun, casting an ethereal golden light on the ground. There was a deafening hush over the world, like I was the only one in existence. 

As I neared the Spiral I checked my pockets for the invitation. It was still there thankfully, written on parchment paper in careful cursive letters. It read: Come to the Spiral at three in the afternoon for the council of Makers.

There were five Makers, myself included. We are the creators of the world, the ones who make existence exist. Essentially, we make what our hearts desire, or destroy what does not please us. There used to be six of us until my brother was taken off the council of Makers. Like many Makers before me, all the power went to his head, and he took it out on myself and a few others. To have these powers, to create these worlds, is a responsibility he did not like to take. He felt it was my fault for the consequences of his own actions, and for that, it was his downfall. And he died because of that lust for power—falling off one of my worlds and into the dark abyss beyond it.

As I neared the Spiral, I spotted my friend, Amile, a woman full of grace and dignity, standing there at the doors edges. She seemed to be waiting for them to open, staring at the doors with her letter of invitation as well. 

Her gold eyes snapped to my deep hazel ones, and she frowned. “The doors will not open for me Chai.”

I frowned as well, stepping up to the doors edge as well, placing my hand on the cool gold. The golden symbols swirled, like it was trying to open, but did not budge an inch. “Did they lock it?”

Amile looked at her letter again, shaking her head. We had the same exact letter, so I already knew what it said. It was nothing helpful. “It does not say,” she said.

“I guess we will have to wait then.” I sigh, and I take a step back from the door. 

Amile crossed her arms, the paper folding awkwardly in her hand. Her hair was down to her navel now, her dark brown hair, like the dirt of the earth, was braided back in sections. Her dark skin was, and will always be, as ethereal as her. Unlike her though, my own blonde hair was cropped short, to about my ears. I had pale skin and a scar that ran from my chin to my collar bones, from an ancient time where I did not know the extent of my powers. Before I knew my limits.

“So,” she said, “have you heard from your father since before this meeting?”

My father, also a part of the council, was one of its eldest members. “No,” I confirmed. “He does not say a word unless he has to.”

“That’s too bad,” Amile said, staring at those great, golden doors.

My own eyes locked onto them, a small smile tugging on my lips. “I don’t really care. He never really said much anyways.” I looked at her. “Nothing worth remembering anyways.”

She chuckled, looking at me. My chest tightened a little bit. “What have you been up to, Chai? Any new developments in that new world of yours?”

I try desperately to hide my grin, biting the inside of my cheek. “Not really, but it will get there. It's taking more time than usual since I’m letting it rest a little bit.”

She smirked at me, turning back to look at the door. “Mhm, that’s what you said last time.”

“I am!” I said, a tad defensive. “I’m letting the rock cool before adding onto its core.”

“Right, and I have five heads,” she retorted. 

I shrug. “I mean, you could.”

We stare at the door for a moment before Amile walks up to it again and places her hand on the door again, concentrating on opening it. I also walk up to it, placing my hand on it, scrunching my eyebrows together as I focus on opening this damn door. It should just swing open, but the doors almost seem to be stuck or barred from the inside, which doesn’t make sense. The council should be expecting us.

“Maybe we can find a window or a back door or something,” Amile mumbled.

“There is none,” I counter. 

“Fantastic.”

The golden doors rumbled, shaking at the hinges.

I step away from the door, gesturing with my hand for her to do the same. She does it almost immediately, not needing me to tell her. Something didn’t seem right about this. Something seemed wrong. 

The doors creaked open at an agonizingly slow pace. Amile bounced on the balls of her feet, trying to peer through them while I stood back and watched. There was no light beyond the walls, the murals I knew beyond them no longer visible to the naked eye. They had the worlds we created painted onto them,  the monsters and the plants and the life they had.

But all I can see is that devastating darkness. 

The doors open all the way, exposing the interior walls of the Spiral, the sunlight trying to pierce through the solid block of darkness. Amile took a step closer, trying to see. “Be careful,” I warned.

She shot a look at me. “I was planning on it.”

I followed her, taking up the spot behind her as we entered the darkness together. I couldn’t see a thing, having to grip the veneered walls to make sure I was moving forward and not going in circles. Amile and I talked the whole way, making sure we didn’t lose each other in the pitch black.

The wall abruptly ended, and I stumbled forward. The darkness was starting to ease up, and I knew we were in the council room now. It looked like a mess, with scattered papers littering the floor and broken pieces of what used to be our chairs everywhere. What concerned me most, and Amile as she stood by my side, was the blood splattering the walls. The sheer amount of it alone was enough to root me in my spot like a sapling in the ground.

“What happened?” Amile breathed, taking a hesitant step forward. 

I shook my head, swallowing a heavy lump in the back of my throat. “I do not know,” I said quietly. 

Amile carefully walked around the desks where we used to sit. She peered at the floor where I saw blood pooling from underneath the large oak desk. I knew who’s desk it was, but didn’t want to accept it, didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that it was. . .

“Your father,” she whispered. Her eyes were wild as she looked at me. The only thing she could do was shake her head. “Everyone is. . .”

Dead. Everyone is dead. Except for us two. 

  “We need to go,” I said suddenly. I sprinted towards her, taking her hand and nearly dragged her out of the capitol. She shouted in protest, but I didn’t listen as I sped us out of the building. I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't stand there and watch my father’s blood dry on the ground, I couldn’t watch the blood on the walls slowly drip down like syrup. 

And most of all, I didn’t want Amile to be next. We were so close to being a part of the slaughter. The killer could still be in there for all we knew. 

Who could have done this? Who could have broken into the Spiral, the only true secure place for the Makers to meet?

As we exited the building, I let go of Amile’s hand and almost fell to the ground, gasping for air. It was all I could do to get air into my stiff lungs, trying to keep myself from despairing over the fact that someone had killed everyone I ever knew.

Amile put a hand on my shoulder, tightening her grip on me. I thought it was for comfort at first until I felt her shaking me and saying my name. It almost drowned out from my own rushing thoughts, but I knew then her words weren’t for comfort. They were a warning. 

I looked up at her—her face agape and in plain terror. Her eyes were fixed to the street in front of us. Tentatively, I slowly looked over to where she stared. The blood immediately drained from my face.

The first thing I noticed was the deep red blood, and the deep brown stains in his elegant clothes. Then it was the matted blond hair, and the dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in over a century. But I knew that face. I grew up with that face. I watched that face fall into the darkness between stars, screaming for me, calling out my name. I would have known him anywhere. 

I thought he was dead, but here he is, right in front of me on the street, smiling at me with that sick, twisted grin. Splattered blood dotted his cheeks, shadowing where his dimples were. Down his neck was a solid blotch of sticky red. 

He took a few paces forward, knowing his presence was marked.

“Hello Chai,” he said, his voice deep and sensual. “Sister.”

“Earl,” I whispered, almost unbelieving. I was seeing a ghost of living and breathing flesh.

He chuckled, looking at Amile, who was shaking in her boots next to me. I couldn’t blame her. He was a Maker, like us. Even if he was dead, even though he isn’t dead, the blood flowing through his veins would always open the doors to the Spiral. He. . . he killed everyone.

“Miss me?” he said.