The Electric Star Shortage

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. But last night, while sitting in a hanging chair outside, soaking up the last dregs of the cool autumn air, I heard, amidst the stillness, a microscopic screech which seemed to reverberate from the darkest corner of the night sky directly to me. In response to the sound similar to a lightbulb scraping the metal of the socket, I turned my eyes scouring the star flecked sky when a dot barely within sight succumbed to the blackness around it. I rubbed my eyes and squinted until my head hurt, but the white pinprick never returned.

"Jaci, Jaci", a familiar voice whispers my name tugging me like a leash back to the present. Like a mindless robot, I turn my head to face my coworker and friend, Valeria. Her green eyes dart from me back towards the head of the table a couple of times before I follow her gaze. Ms. McMinnon stares at me unblinking and expectantly.

Silently fumbling, I clear my throat, "The five test groups yielded similar results." Nervously, I glance at Val; she imperceptibly nods. "The main motivator for buying seltzers is the alcohol content, then calories following close behind it." Having found my groove, I continue deconstructing the graphs and facts we received from the taste tests of our company's new drink. When the meeting finally ends, it is after noon.

"That went well," Val states collecting her pens, folders, and binder, "Do you want to get something to eat?"

The invitation is just a nicety; I know she already has plans to accidentally-on-purpose bump into her new crush. A girl with long wavy brown hair and a bright, business style from a few floors below ours. Apparently, one day a few weeks back, Valerie had accidentally sent pages to a printer on her floor, and when she went to retrieve them the two had talked for nearly 20 minutes in copier room.

"Maybe you'll finally get her number today," I say already planning my lunch break activities: frozen Trader Joe's mac and cheese while surfing the internet for strange nightly occurrences. The conference room stays silent, and I realize a little late Valeria had already left.

On the way home, I sigh frustratedly. I am annoyed because the search during lunch resulted in nothing and because the event from the previous night rattles me in a seemingly exaggerated way. Furthermore, the star, if I am being logical, could have not existed in the first place; my mind could have simply imagined the whole situation including the disturbing little sound.

As if the universe had heard my thoughts, my phone vibrates. I turn my car off and roll my eyes when I read the name on the screen: Forrest.

Do you have any plans tonight?

Tamping my conscience deep down into a vault somewhere beneath my stomach I reply.

No, do you want to come over?

The phone is silent until I slide my key into the lock.

I will be there in an hour.

I roll my eyes at myself, at the situation, at the frustration from last night. At least for a moment, I will be distracted, so distracted I will even forget about Forrest's complicated relationship.

Seeing the flashing green random numbers on my microwave spark a feeling of unease. The electricity had gone out today? There had been no storm or strong winds or even a mention in the news about any electrical shortages. Begrudgingly, I punch the numbers 05:41 into the microwave unsure if it was pm or am or if it even matters. Then, I trudge to the bathroom and turn on the hot water for a bath, retrieve two candles from the cabinet under the sink, and a jar of bubbles. I shut the door, turn off the light, shed my clothes and dip into the hot nearly scalding water. My eyes close. My mind wanders. And I think I fall asleep or at least fall into the in-between of consciousness and unconsciousness.

When the water turns cold, I hurriedly scrape over my body with a coarse bristle brush and body soap. The roughness leaving red streaks across my skin. My hand reaches for my phone, and I am in shock; Forrest would be arriving any moment. Uncharacteristically quick, I towel off, throw my hair in a towel, and tug on a large shirt and biker shorts. While staring at my reflection in the bedroom mirror, the red dashes on my alarm clock catch my attention. I forgot to fix my alarm clock's time earlier. 06:43. Being late for this type of meeting is unusual for Forrest. Checking my phone shows there is still no response from him, but when I click on our messages it shows the grey bubble with dots rhythmically flashing. In a trance, I stare at the little dots awaiting his text. A few moments, then a few minutes roll by and silence. Nothing.

I continue to towel dry my hair in the bathroom and place the items in their original places. Purposefully, I had left my phone in my bedroom to prevent myself from obsessively tapping on the screen. However, when I retreat back to the room, there are zero notifications. Finally succumbing to hunger, I venture out to the kitchen and the screen on microwave stares at me flashing. I slump into a chair. I check our messages. The dots continue to flash at me. Something pulls my attention from my phone to the window, and I see all the lights in the city flashing. Flashing at me. One big strobe light pulsing. And slowly, imperceptibly the screeching begins.