I, Cassandra

34 | CASSANDRA VALLIS

I drift, helpless, unable to control the passage of my dreams, rancid with accusation for the multitude of hurricanes I called down onto innocents—of half-starved men, women and children swept away by seething tidal surges—their lives flotsam in the filthy waters of a ruined, polluted planet. Sickened, I observe the magnitude of my unwitting crimes, done so long ago. Years ago. Lost, unloved and abandoned cats and dogs shiver in the graffitied ruins of buildings, their eyes rolling with fear, their little bodies unable to withstand the violence of what I have unleashed.

The images slow. My perspective narrows to an alley. Within the grimy walls of its rain-battered corridor, a grey kitten clings to a shattered piece of concrete. Bedraggled, and emaciated, its eyes are wide with terror. Though its existence is miserable, its struggle is visceral, its desire to live, to go on, even here. Even in this savaged, dying world. It trembles. A brutal gust of wind shears through the space. A shorn piece of corrugated steel hurtles towards it. The invisible walls surrounding me melt away. Rain slams into me, icy blades which plaster my hair against my face. The air hauls at my lungs, yanks it from my throat. Pressure roars against my chest. I push my way through the wall of wind and rain towards the kitten, towards the massive piece of metal tumbling towards us. Its edges grin at me, screaming death. I see the kitten. She sees me. Her mouth opens. A cry I cannot hear, but I understand. I feel her terror, uniting us as one. I reach her, catch her up against the shelter of my breast just as the metal shears into my back, tears apart my flesh and bone. Pain, hot and tight compresses me. I fall to my knees. The metal pulls itself free and tumbles down the alley, hot with my blood. I look down. She's alive. I realize she is Miro. I shelter her with my dying body. Against my heart, I feel her purr.

An eternity of dark passes, laced with unspeakable pain, not of my body but of my soul. I dine on guilt, on my longing to suffer, to pay for what I have done to thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of lives. Light seeps through. I open my eyes. I am still in the alley. Miro sits beside me, no longer a kitten, but herself, thin and wan. I look myself over. I am whole again.

I pull myself to my feet. The storm is long gone. Miro does not move. I bend down to pick her up, but she hunches down, refuses my gentle tug. She lifts her eyes to mine, within each of her dilated pupils, numbers: in one 01.13 in the other, 2087. They burn into my brain. A vision. I blink. They vanish. My heart clenches. Jan 13, 2087. Three months time. Wracked with dread, I turn away from Miro and look between the buildings at the sky. It blurs with the rapid passage of night and day, the clouds tumble by, tormented, caught in their death throes. The moon waxes and wanes. It comes to a stop, abrupt. It is morning. The sky is pale with dawn.

I hear it before I see it. A thundering powerful enough to make the ground tremble. And then, heat. Fierce heat. An inferno. I pick Miro up. Another blast of heat hits us. She opens her mouth, a plaintive cry subsumed by the roar of the skies. In the cradle of my arms, she turns to ash. I scream, but no sound comes. Across my torso and arms, the smear of her existence fades. Miro. No. It is unbearable. And then it comes. A wall of pure fire, white-hot, aflame with liquid heat, hotter than a thousand suns. I rise up, up, away from it, as high as the heavens and see. I see it all. The world is consumed by fire. Cleansed by it. It is the end of all things.

I sit up, panting. Darkness surrounds me as black as a pit. A series of quiet clicks. A sound I recognise as the air circulation system kicking in. A soft rush of air drifts over me, fresher than anything I have known in years. I drink it in, press my hands against my heart, seeking to ease its thunder.

Movement beside me. A groan. The rasp of a hand against the stubble of an unshaven jaw. My breathing is ragged. I try to slow it down, but it is too late. I can tell he's awake. He sits up. The heat of him finds me. I wait, but he doesn't touch me.

'Bad dream?' His voice is rough, like sandpaper, and thick with sleep.

I nod, even though I know he can't see me. I lean forward to pat the foot of the bed, desperate to find Miro, to feel the rise and fall of her chest. My fingers graze her back. She chirps, soft, at my touch. My throat closes over. Three months. Three more times the moon will wax and wane for all those still alive on Earth, and then nothing. Everything will be ash. I am numb with the enormity of it. I bite my lip to feel pain, to feel something.

I can feel the weight of Ryan's gaze on me, even through the veil of darkness. I wonder if his vision is enhanced to see in the dark. I hope not. He touches my shoulder, his fingertips gentle against the curve of my neck, his accuracy disconcerting. So, he can see in the dark. A sweep of desire runs through me, unexpected and forbidden. I swallow my revulsion, my shame. Yet, underneath what he has become, something intangible remains. Because even though his body is gone, the man I loved is still alive, trapped in metal and encased in brutality.

'You want some water?' he asks. A pause. 'Or tea? I can make tea.' He shifts to the edge of the bed, the thick hush of his fatigues against the sheets loud in the somnolent quiet. He waits.

I ask him for tea because I know it will take more time. I want to be alone. He leaves without turning any lights on, his steps certain, like a cat. The door opens, and a slice of light slides into the room, widens and shrinks again. The door closes, a gentle click. I curl up around Miro and stroke her, savouring the feel of her, the soft rise and fall of each of her breaths. My fingers drift to the curve of her jaw, memorising the slope of her nose, the slant of her brow. She doesn't move and it unnerves me. I kiss her nose, willing her to stir, to wake so I can pick her up and hold her. She remains locked in her dreams. Miro. Until Ryan came along, Miro was my whole family, my reason for existence, my reason to go on. And now—