Ascending the Boneyard Read Online Free
Author: C. G. Watson
somewhere spiritual, sneak in, turn back clock, take me away.
Thatâs it. No header, no title, no explanation.
I stare at it, wondering what question these words are the answer to. My heartâs hitting the side of my rib cage so hard, it feels like somethingâs about to shatter inside me.
Devin starts banging on the tray part of his chair. I look over at him, watch a thread of drool stretch from the corner of his mouth toward his curled-up hand. A hand that used to sock me in the arm just for walking by. That used to muss up my shaggy hair, then smooth down his own perfectly executed side-sweep. That used to fish all the cheese curls out of my bag of snack mix, even knowing how bad it would piss me off.
I crawl over to his chair. Collapse next to it. Wrap my arms around the wheel as my gaze drifts unanchored through the room.
My phone buzzes at me from my back pocket. I run my dirty fingernails through my matted hair, pull the phone out, open the app.
The sky will fall and death will beat its wings against the ground .
Iâm still tripping over the bizarre text when a gruesome close-up picture of a cockroach comes through.
Shit! I pop it off as hard as I can, watch as it slo-mo fumbles to the ground.
How the hell did a cockroach get into my phoneâhow does that even happen? Is Commandant Turk menacing me, trying to throw me off the game? Pretty effective strategy, if thatâs the case.
I try to shake the image out of my head, only now that Iâve seen it, I canât unsee it. Not the words, not the cockroach picture that came attachedâitâs all burned into my brain.
I pick up the phone, mash the buttons looking for the photo so I can at least freakinâ delete it.
But itâs already gone. The cockroach is gone.
Devin bangs harder and louder for his sippy cup. I try to stand, but my legs wobble underneath me, and I canât use my hands because Iâve got a viselike grip on my phone in one and a viselike grip on my momâs list in the other. Iâm crazy-shaking as I cram everything into my pockets, as I stagger to my feet, as I stumble out of the living room.
Only, there in the entryway, I spot Devinâs skateboard propped against the wall by the door where itâs been leaning, untouched, for the last four years. The breath vapor locks inside me. If I hadnât been such a dick to him that day, heâd be out skating right now, and Iâd be giving him shit for his crappy taste in music.
Everything would still be normal.
No wheelchair.
No fifteen hundred and eighty-seven fights.
No bug truck, hauling her out of here like a piece of used furniture.
My whole life, reset back to default mode.
By the time I reach the kitchen, the tears are shudder-sobbing through every hollow inch of my body.
I fumble in the dark for the light switch, hit it.
The wallpaper goes supernova.
Cockroaches.
Everywhere.
Theyâre shooting out of the cracks in the walls, out of holes in the windowsills, out of rips in the wallpaper. I try to rake them out of my hair, scratch them out from under my skin, but they keep coming and coming, amassing along the empty highway, blockading the entrance to the tunnels. Every single one of them is scatting out the words âthe end is here,â just like that day in the Boneyard. Only this time, itâs my survival bar thatâs depleting.
The chirr of trillions of roaches floods my ears, and I throw my arms over my head to block out the sound as I sink to the floor.
2.5
Militiababe wore an odd kind of mask that covered the lower half of her face but not her eyes. Youâd think that would make it easier to find her. Not in reality, of course. In reality, Militiababe could look like pretty much anything.
But Iâm still hoping to come across her again in-game.
A girl in a half mask canât just disappear. Can she?
3
A shard of blistering sunlight hits me straight through my closed eyelids.
I wake up
Thatâs it. No header, no title, no explanation.
I stare at it, wondering what question these words are the answer to. My heartâs hitting the side of my rib cage so hard, it feels like somethingâs about to shatter inside me.
Devin starts banging on the tray part of his chair. I look over at him, watch a thread of drool stretch from the corner of his mouth toward his curled-up hand. A hand that used to sock me in the arm just for walking by. That used to muss up my shaggy hair, then smooth down his own perfectly executed side-sweep. That used to fish all the cheese curls out of my bag of snack mix, even knowing how bad it would piss me off.
I crawl over to his chair. Collapse next to it. Wrap my arms around the wheel as my gaze drifts unanchored through the room.
My phone buzzes at me from my back pocket. I run my dirty fingernails through my matted hair, pull the phone out, open the app.
The sky will fall and death will beat its wings against the ground .
Iâm still tripping over the bizarre text when a gruesome close-up picture of a cockroach comes through.
Shit! I pop it off as hard as I can, watch as it slo-mo fumbles to the ground.
How the hell did a cockroach get into my phoneâhow does that even happen? Is Commandant Turk menacing me, trying to throw me off the game? Pretty effective strategy, if thatâs the case.
I try to shake the image out of my head, only now that Iâve seen it, I canât unsee it. Not the words, not the cockroach picture that came attachedâitâs all burned into my brain.
I pick up the phone, mash the buttons looking for the photo so I can at least freakinâ delete it.
But itâs already gone. The cockroach is gone.
Devin bangs harder and louder for his sippy cup. I try to stand, but my legs wobble underneath me, and I canât use my hands because Iâve got a viselike grip on my phone in one and a viselike grip on my momâs list in the other. Iâm crazy-shaking as I cram everything into my pockets, as I stagger to my feet, as I stumble out of the living room.
Only, there in the entryway, I spot Devinâs skateboard propped against the wall by the door where itâs been leaning, untouched, for the last four years. The breath vapor locks inside me. If I hadnât been such a dick to him that day, heâd be out skating right now, and Iâd be giving him shit for his crappy taste in music.
Everything would still be normal.
No wheelchair.
No fifteen hundred and eighty-seven fights.
No bug truck, hauling her out of here like a piece of used furniture.
My whole life, reset back to default mode.
By the time I reach the kitchen, the tears are shudder-sobbing through every hollow inch of my body.
I fumble in the dark for the light switch, hit it.
The wallpaper goes supernova.
Cockroaches.
Everywhere.
Theyâre shooting out of the cracks in the walls, out of holes in the windowsills, out of rips in the wallpaper. I try to rake them out of my hair, scratch them out from under my skin, but they keep coming and coming, amassing along the empty highway, blockading the entrance to the tunnels. Every single one of them is scatting out the words âthe end is here,â just like that day in the Boneyard. Only this time, itâs my survival bar thatâs depleting.
The chirr of trillions of roaches floods my ears, and I throw my arms over my head to block out the sound as I sink to the floor.
2.5
Militiababe wore an odd kind of mask that covered the lower half of her face but not her eyes. Youâd think that would make it easier to find her. Not in reality, of course. In reality, Militiababe could look like pretty much anything.
But Iâm still hoping to come across her again in-game.
A girl in a half mask canât just disappear. Can she?
3
A shard of blistering sunlight hits me straight through my closed eyelids.
I wake up
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