One Last Night: a short story by Kody Boye
In which two teens live out the last night on planet Earth
My name is Ashley Madison, and tonight will be the last night I will ever exist.
Some would be upset by this knowledge. Others would completely break down. Many would ultimately do something unspeakable. But tonight, I only have one goal in mind:
I want to live as long as I can.
So, on this last night, I prepare for the party of a lifetime—or, more appropriately, the end of our lifetimes.
My makeup done. My black dress on. My red heels strapped to my feet. My ash-blonde hair cascades in the gust cast from the floor fan that stands near my vanity, and for a moment, I wonder if it will be breezy, on this last night on the planet Earth.
Then, I ask myself:
“Does it matter?”
I decide it doesn’t by applying a thin layer of pink lip gloss, and turn my attention to the clock at my side.
It is currently 4:55. This leaves me approximately thirty to make it to the party, which begins at six o’clock sharp. There will be music. Dancing. A celebration of the lives we’ve lived, and the ones we will never get the chance to.
The asteroid is coming.
Scientists say it will wipe out most life on planet Earth.
I consider this reality with the weight of the world on my shoulders—with the weight of every existential crisis and dread I could have ever dreamed of experiencing. The fact is: my life—our lives—will be cut short. And it’s all because the scientists made a mistake.
One tiny, little mistake.
The asteroid was never meant to get so close. Never meant to change its direction, or even its overall trajectory. It will bypass us completely, the scientists had said. It will not hit the planet, they had said.
Unfortunately, they were wrong, and there is absolutely nothing we can do to stop it.
Nothing.
Some have turned to looting to live their final opulent hours, others rioting in protest for the lies that we have been told. A choice few have succumbed to violence.
Then there are some who could not handle the pressures bearing down upon them.
I don’t know what happened to my parents. Where they went. What they planned on doing. All I know is that they left one morning without leaving a note, and I have been alone since.
Hence: the party.
You’re going to be late, a part of me says, if you do not hurry.
This is the knowledge that spurs me to rise from my place at my vanity, that makes me consider the cell phone at my side, whose service has been spotty for the past week as the world has descended into chaos. I can barely make a call without the line disconnecting. Thankfully, messaging still works.
After swiping my cell from its place on the ottoman in my room, I flick through my apps and then contacts until I find my best friend’s name.
Nick.
Oh sweet, sweet Nick. If only we’d had more time.
I take a moment to swallow down my pride before texting, Are you ready?
Many long, painful moments later, he replies, Meet you outside in five.
And thus begins our last night.
The last night of Planet Earth is cool. A breeze whispers through our small neighborhood in Southern Texas, prompting a thankful sigh from my lips. My short, close-fitting strapless dress would have normally drawn unwelcome looks from neighbors, but at this hour, no one will say anything. The end is going to come eventually anyway. Who cares if a girl wears a nice dress on the last night of her life?
“Hey!” a voice calls. “Ashley!”
I turn my head to regard my best friend, Nick Kauffman—who, at six-foot-one, towers over me by at least seven inches. His broad shoulders and muscled arms only add to his imposing physique, but Nick is a sweetheart. Always has been—
Never will be again, I think.
I instinctively smile even through all the pain and trauma I’ve experienced over the past week, and move to approach him, careful not to stop onto the jagged crack that separates us like a great continental divide.
“You look nice,” I say.
“You, too,” he says.
We stare at each other for several long moments, as if waiting for one or the other to say something more, something that might bridge this gap of silence. When Nick doesn’t speak—and when I find I can’t—I merely turn my head in search of the steady whoomp whoomp whoomp of the music coming from Cynthia Sinclair’s house down he road.
“Are we ready?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready.”
We start forward, then, backs ramrod straight, eyes set ahead. Around us, other teens and young adults emerge homes and then begin to make their way down the street. A few cars roll down the road—some with guys whooping and hollering, others with girls cheering and jeering.
I hear someone yell, “Hey, Ashley Madison! Have a beer!”
Then a bottle lands somewhere nearby, and shatters into a million pieces.
I blink as I consider the action—as I contemplate the near-assault.
Nick says, “You’re sure you want to go?”
And I immediately answer by saying, “Yeah. I do. They’re just drunk kids anyway. It’s not like we can expect everyone to take this well.”
“Are you taking it well?” Nick asks.
I don’t want to answer. For that, I simply reach down, take hold of his hand, and say, “Let’s go.”
At first, he doesn’t move—maybe because he’s shocked that I’m touching him, or for some other reason I can’t be sure of. His mouth is open in a silent o, his eyes are wide, his fingers tightening in mine.
Thankfully, Nick eventually moves; and within moments, falls into place beside me.
Hand-in-hand, we continue to make our way toward Cynthia Sinclair’s house at the end of the lane.
“What do you think?” Nick asks as the music becomes progressively louder. “We gonna stick together?”
“I don’t want to get separated,” I say. “Or drink anything they might be offering.”
“Don’t want the buzz?”
“More like don’t want the drugs,” I reply.
He frowns, but nods all the same. “I understand.”
“Nick,” I say, stopping not far from where the sidewalk begins to curve around the last house at the end of the lane. I swallow the lump that’s developing in my throat and lift my eyes to face him.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Don’t leave me tonight. Please.”
“I won’t,” he says.
He tightens his hold on my hand. Squeezes my fingers.
Then, a moment later, we start toward Cynthia Sinclair’s family home.
The Sinclair Mansion, as it is usually called, is not really a mansion. Mostly, it’s called that by our neighbors because it’s the largest house on our road, and because Cynthia’s father, Robert Sinclair, owns a family business that’s grown his ego just as much as it has his wallet. Still—Cynthia is nice, and she’s invited everyone on this block to attend her blockbuster end of the world party.
“You think her dad’s here?” Nick asks as we step up toward the front door.
“Cynthia’s?” I ask, and laugh. “You really think Robert Sinclair is going to be here, when he could be on his yacht with however many women? Besides—” I nod as a few guys from our school turn their heads to look at me “—I doubt he’d want to hang out with a bunch of teenagers.”
“Makes sense,” Nick says.
We step into the awe-inspiring living room of the Sinclair family home, whose overhead smart-light fixtures pulse in a rainbow of colors to the beat of electronica music. Around us, people stand talking, laughing, dancing. A fountain spouts red punch, and a number of wine and alcohol bottles are already lined up on a bar, at which Cynthia Sinclair is serving her greedy party-goers.
She spots us immediately. Nick!” she calls. “Ashley! I’m so glad you came.”
“We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Nick replies.
She giggles. “The world,” she says, then giggles again. “The world.”
She is undoubtedly high, though on what I can’t be certain.
She points a bottle of wine toward the two of us and giggles once more. “You want a drink?”
“No,” I say. “We don’t.”
“Aww, come on! What’s a party without a little drink?”
“We’re fine, Cindy.”
The girl pouts, but says, “Fine,” then adds, “I’m glad you guys came. No one deserves to be alone tonight.”
There isn’t much more to say. Hardly anything to do. Everything to think. It is for that reason that I take hold of Nick’s hand, and carefully begin to weave him through and around the various party-goers.
“Where are we heading?” Nick asks.
“Out back,” I say. “Near the pool.”
“They have a pool?”
I don’t say anything. Rather, I keep moving us forward, ever so stalwartly leading us on with the intent of people on a mission, though what mission that is I can’t be for certain. All I know is that, come time we step outside—and come time we take note of the people in the pool, laughing and drinking and having the time of their lives, I guide Nick to the edge of the porch, whereat I seat myself on the edge of the raised concrete surrounding it.
Nick hesitates a moment, but settles into the place beside me a short moment later. “You didn’t want to be alone tonight,” he says. “Did you?”
I don’t respond. My eyes are lost to the distance—to the sky and all the flickering stars in it.
“You didn’t care about the party,” Nick continues after a moment of hesitation. “You just wanted to be around people. To feel alive.”
“Alive,” I say, and find myself laughing not long after. “I’m sure how alive I really am right now, all things considering.”
“Is it because of your parents leaving? The asteroid coming? Or is it because—”
“The future is no longer going to happen?” I ask.
He appears to wait for me to speak—likely to say something, anything to reveal my true emotions. The fact is: I don’t know what to say. My thoughts are dark, my heart along with them.
I wanted so desperately to come to this party—to dance the night away and forget everything that was going to happen. Now that I’m here, though…
I can’t help but feel lost.
What am I to do, I wonder, on the last night of my life?
I told myself that I’d go out living—that I’d go out having fun. But no matter how much I want to admit it, a part of me wishes I hadn’t woken up today, and that I hadn’t had to wait and anticipate in cruel and horrific fashion the end of the world.
Nick stares at me. I know he wants to say something. I can instinctively feel it. I am also aware that he is just as conflicted as I am.
I ask, “What did your parents think about you coming here?”
And he replies by saying, “They didn’t want you to be alone.”
“And they were okay with that?”
“I don’t think they’re okay with anything, Ash. I mean… they might not have run off like your parents did, but they… they’re gone in a different sense.”
He doesn’t have to explain. Being Christian, Nick’s parents believe in an afterlife. But me? I’m not so sure.
Because deep down, I can’t help but wonder if there should have been a sign.
A sign to step back. To ponder, maybe pray.
Sighing, I turn my head to look into the sky once more.
“You don’t have to be scared,” Nick says.
“Please don’t say anything about—”
“Living on after we die?” Nick shakes his head. “I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
He shakes his head once more. “No. I’m not. Because that isn’t right, to force what I feel on you, especially when you’re not sure.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to be sure, Nick. It’s just—”
“What?”
“I wish we’d had more time.”
“I know you do. So do I.”
A flickering countenance appears in the sky over our heads—and like dumb birds drawn to the rain, everyone in the vicinity turns their heads to look at the sky.
“I guess this is it,” I whisper.
Nick takes hold of my hand. “Ash?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s okay to be scared of what comes next. I am, too.”
“It just seems like it was all for nothing,” I say.
“It wasn’t all for nothing,” he replies. “Because we lived.”
Tears bud at my eyes. Mascara runs down my face.
I whisper only two words:
“Thank you.”
I do not hear his response.
All I can hear, in the final moments of my life, is Nick’s voice in my head.
All I can hear is: We lived.
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