Honeycomb Bones

CW:T his story contains themes of death, grief, and disturbing psychological elements.

The car rumbled, the engine spluttering. The seatbelt was too tight across my neck, jutting painfully into my throat. I pressed a hand beneath it and felt my skin scratched raw. There was already a crimson stain on the fabric, that had grown progressively darker every time someone sat there. I’d lost hope that soap and water would ever be able to get it out, had I even tried.

‘Damn engine,’ Mum muttered. She was driving, hunched over the steering wheel like a goblin, an unnatural arch of her spine. Her knuckles were pasty white, her face tinged pink, fringed by unruly hair.

I swallowed a lump in my throat, ‘I can get it fixed.’

Mum’s pupils narrowed. Her face contorted in a grimacing sneer, glinting sweat beaded on her upper lip. The aircon was busted, too. And thick clouds sealed the day’s stifling heat in the atmosphere, blanketing the night sky.

‘Don’t need my daughter solving my problems for me,’ she snapped. ‘Think I can’t do it, is that it? Think I need your help with my car?’

My stomach knotted. ‘It was just a suggestion.’

‘Yeah?’ Mum growled, pressing her foot down harder on the accelerator. Trying to prove a point, maybe. The engine coughed in response. ‘Well, how ‘bout you keep your suggestions to yourself, eh? I don’t –’ Her sentence was cut off by the screeching of metal, hot grinding tyres against the road, the smell of burnt rubber. Her words were swallowed by the noise, the blinding lights that were suddenly in our way, the nose of the car coming right for me. It was in slow-motion. Shattering glass, tinkling as it broke, sprinkling across my lap. I screamed but my lungs had no air. The front of the car collided with my body, which was now one with the seat, the seatbelt, the dashboard, all at once. I could feel every bone in my body snapping simultaneously, a chorus of sickening pops. Red-hot blood pulsed behind my eyes, and in front, as it dripped own from my forehead. A ringing in my ears.

‘No.’ Someone said. Mum, maybe, but her voice was so raw, like the car had scratched up her throat, that it might’ve been someone else.

I awoke gasping, drenched in a cold sweat. I touched my face, my neck, my body, like I always did. My skin was moist from sweat but not blood. My bones were as they should be. I was fine.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. Five-oh-seven, the first fingers of sunlight probing the horizon outside, but still dark enough to pass for nighttime. I breathed in shakily, steeling my electrified nerves, and heaved myself to my feet. An itching crawled up the side of my neck, and I rubbed it –a phantom sensation, right where the seatbelt had been slicing against my skin in my dream. Like my body had thought it was real.

I didn’t have to be up for hours, but I wouldn’t sleep again that night. Not after that nightmare. My heart was still thrashing against my ribcage, and I almost wondered if it could break free. If that was possible. If it was going to happen, it would happen now.

There was a faint rustling from Mum’s bedroom. I had hoped I wouldn’t wake her, but she always seemed to know when I had a nightmare. Like a sixth sense. Maybe I mumbled in my sleep –there was no way my faint padding out of my bedroom had woken her.

‘Hannah,’ she whispered. ‘Is that you?’

She emerged from her room, blanketed by shadows, wearing a pyjama top that said I just need some space, surrounded by floating planets.

‘Yeah,’ I hissed back. There was no point in whispering, really, now that we were both awake. It was only the two of us at home. It had always been that way, ever since I was born. Mum didn’t like to speak of Dad much. She told me, when I was twelve: ‘he was a stubborn man, who didn’t love either of us.’ And I didn’t ask again.

‘Did you have another nightmare?’ Mum asked. She’d known when I started having them. I went to her immediately. In real life, she wasn’t anything like how she was in my dreams. She was caring and sensitive, brushing my hair away from my face, dabbing away my sweat. When I was younger, I’d crawl into her bed and sleep between the sheets.

‘Yeah.’ Still, I cringed when I said the word. It wasn’t embarrassing, but it was the way her forehead creased and the lines stayed there, perpetual worry etched in her skin.

She brought me to the kitchen, like she always did, poured me a glass of water, and made me recount it in as much detail as I could remember. But it was already vanishing, the edges fading into one another, the tentacles of memory slipping away from me. There was nothing left but the feelings –raw terror, dread, anger. That was before the crash. I was so angry. Like I was walking on eggshells, and I hated it. The swirling rage that bubbled up inside of me –a fragment of that remained. A candle. But it was still there.

‘I’m going to go,’ I said, after I’d downed my glass and finished my story. ‘It’s too stuffy in here.’ Stuffy wasn’t the word I was looking for. The air had that morning thinness that dried out your eyes and made your lips beg for Vaseline. It was more like suffocating.

‘Alright,’ Mum said. ‘Take something to eat, though? Or will you be back before school?’

‘I’ll be back.’ I said. My stomach was too knotted to eat. I just wanted out. ‘I’ve got hours.’

There was something unreal about being outside when the rest of the world was asleep. It was dark enough that the streetlights were still on, but the sky was a dusty blue, and the stars were already beginning to dull, like freckles in winter. The street was quiet except for the faint fluttering of leaves in the wind and the whispering of the trees.

I walked where my legs would carry me. Nowhere in particular, but I just wanted away. Away from my home. Away from my bed –a safe haven morphed into a prison of terror, nightmares, being trapped inside my own head night after night. When had I begun to be scared of it? When had I begun to dread the night?

Mum had tried all she could to help me. I visited a sleep specialist once a week. I slept with a nightlight, I avoided screens before bed, I meditated, I wrote the dreams down in a journal when they weren’t too terrifying to relive. They started as fragments: glimpses of the car, of Mum, of myself in the reflection of the grimy window. I could feel the heat, the sweat on my skin, before it all turned to black. Then they began progressing. I could hear myself speaking words that didn’t come from my mouth, but from a faraway place, somewhere where the nightmares festered beneath the surface. I could see the other car more clearly. I could feel my heart pulsing in my chest. And the blood. The sensations of my bones breaking like sticks, didn’t hurt, really, not yet. But the noises were so visceral, so real. My bones wouldn’t snap like that in real life, would they? They weren’t made of honeycomb like they were in my nightmares.

I was at the bus station. I hadn’t meant to walk there. I was the only one there, sitting in the little booth. I didn’t know when a bus was going to come, if it was going to come at all. But I waited.

Eventually, a bus did come. The sky had brightened to a light azure, the golden glow of the sun streaking the taunt clouds pink.

I was exhausted. My head throbbed and thoughts swirled like a whirlwind. The bus was empty except for the driver, a stout man with wispy salt-and-pepper hair, and a trace of a beard on his two chins. I sank down into one of the seats –a mottled brown from years of built-up grime –and let my head slump against the back, my eyes falling closed.

‘No.’ I could hear it again: someone speaking, but I didn’t know who. With a voice so desperate, so pleading, so frantic. I tried to turn, to check who it was. But I couldn’t move. My eyes were shut, glued shut, and all I could see was red pulsing behind them, like a heartbeat.

‘No, no, no, no. Hannah,’ the voice said, hoarse and raw. A kind of primal fear had emerged from beneath layers of resentment. ‘No. You’ll be okay, right? You’ll be okay.’ I could feel coldness on my skin, but it seemed to be coming from somewhere beneath my skin. Something else was exposed to the outside world.

My bones.

In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to scream, yes, I’ll be okay. I’m here. But my lips were locked. I couldn’t even manage a twitch of my fingers.

My head rolled forward on my shoulders as I collided with the seat in front of me, my face mashing into the grimy cushioning. My throat felt like sandpaper, and my lips were flaking skin –my mouth must have been open when I was asleep.

The bus had stopped. I stood up, slowly, hazily –how long had I been asleep for? –and made my way to the front.

‘Thanks for the ride,’ I said, my words tripping over each other. No response. I glanced at the driver’s seat, and felt my eyebrows arch on my face in confusion.

The driver was gone.

‘Hello?’ I called hesitantly. The only response was my own words coming back to meet me.

Unease began to gnaw at my gut. Maybe the driver had gone out for a bathroom break. But we had parked in the middle of the road. Outside the massive front window, we weren’t pulled over to the side. It was like we had stopped, mid-ride. Frozen. The bus wasn’t humming like it was idling at a red light. It had stopped completely, half-way between merging into another lane. Luckey there were no other cars in sight. No other people.

I instinctively fished my phone out of my pocket. I could call Mum –she’d pick me up. Then I saw the time –eleven fifty –and my mouth gaped open. It was almost midday. I’d been asleep for over six hours, and had a dozen missed calls. I unlocked my phone and saw just one message: I’m coming to get you. Mum.

Relief washed over me. She was coming. She’d pick me up from wherever I was. I opened the chat to message her my location, but hesitated. She’d sent that over an hour ago. She was already coming, somehow knowing where I was without me telling her.

Biting my lip, I closed my phone and dropped it back in my pocket. I edged towards the front of the bus –the driver’s seat. There was a large screen beside the steering wheel –directions, maybe. But there was no map on it. There was just a block of text: This bus has reached the end of the simulation. Restart in 26 seconds.

I wrung my hands together in front of me, hands sliding together, pressing my fingers down until each one made a faint clicking noise. A shiver climbed up my spine, like an icy finger tracing the curve of my back. The numbers on the screen flicked down. 20, 19, 18. I felt my heart throbbing in my ears. 17, 16, 15. Simulation? What did that mean? And what would happen when the numbers reached zero?

‘Hannah!’ Mum suddenly shrieked. Her voice was shrill but muffled –she was in her car, yelling out the window. ‘What are you doing? Get out of the bus!’ Beneath the frustration was something else: alarm, dread, terror.

I didn’t move. I was mesmerised, staring at the numbers. 14, 13, 12. What did it mean, simulation?

‘Hannah! Get out, now!’ I could hear the car wheels screeching to a stop, haphazardly deposited on the side of the road. It was eerily quiet, except for her. There was no one else. Just us.

10, 9, 8.

‘What’s going on?’ I mumbled as her footsteps thudded up the steps of the bus. Her icy grip bit into my wrist, and she tugged me away.

‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at school. Come on, let’s go.’ She pulled. I resisted.

7, 6, 5.

‘Wait,’ I said. She didn’t.

‘We have to go. Before –’ before it hits zero – ‘you miss any more school. Come on.’

‘Wait.’ I said again. ‘Why –’ Suddenly, there was a flash of light. The air vanished from my lungs, like it was siphoned away. I gasped but my voice was gone. I shuddered as my body flooded with a fleeting sensation –like I was on the border between life and death.

And then I opened my eyes. I was in bed. My limbs were splayed around me and I was covered by the blanket. My eyes adjusted to my room, blinking away fuzziness, away sleep.

Mum walked in. ‘What are you doing in bed, Hannah?’ She asked, checking her watch. ‘It’s midday!’

‘You –’ I stammered. For a split second, I wondered if what had just happened was a dream. Everything seemed normal, didn’t it? Had the countdown really happened at all? ‘You need to tell me –’

‘Get up!’ Mum said, walking over to pull my doona off. ‘Out of bed. It’s time to get up.’ She tugged on my blanket. ‘Time for up!’

‘Stop!’ I yelled suddenly. My throat felt raw. ‘Stop!’

Mum froze. Her eyes crinkled, like they always did when she was concerned. ‘Oh, honey. Are you sick?’ She pressed the back of her hand to my forehead.

I batted her hand away. My brain felt like mush, but it was slowly reforming. I was coming to understand it now, like clay, moulding into the right shape.

‘I remember it,’ I said. ‘On the bus. You can’t make me forget.’

‘Did you have another nightmare?’ Mum asked, without missing a beat. ‘I’ll contact Erica again. See if we can bring forward the appointment.’

‘No. It wasn’t a nightmare. None –none of them were, were they?’ I asked. ‘Tell me the truth, Mum. What happened in the car?’ The car that I saw every night, in a place that knew more than I did.

Mum chewed her lip, eyes widening. For once, she was lost for words. No glass of water could wash this one away.

‘Hannah –’

‘No more lies,’ I growled. My nightmare had never seemed so real –but that was because it was, wasn’t it?

Simulation. The word bounced around inside my skull. It had meaning, suddenly, heart-wrenching meaning, but still, meaning.

‘I wasn’t going to.’ She said slowly. ‘You’re dead, Han. You died in that car crash.’ The false enthusiasm was gone. Now there was just bluntness.

The words felt like a knife through my heart. I was dead. I was dead.

‘Then –then how am I still here?’ I choked out eventually. My vision was blurry, now, but I could still see Mum’s face, twisted with regret.

‘It’s not real,’ she said blandly. ‘You’re not real. No one here is. It’s –it’s a simulation.’

‘I’m not –’ The word was stuck in my throat. ‘Real? Then why –why am I here? Why are you here?’

‘I couldn’t do it,’ Mum said. Her eyes were milky now, too, unseeing. ‘Not without you. Not with knowing what I had done. So I came here. I built this place, for me and you. We could be happy here.’

‘I’m not real,’ I repeated. ‘Nothing is real.’ But Mum was real. She hadn’t died in that crash. So what was she doing here?

‘I let go of my body,’ she said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘It was the only way I could pay for this. But your dad –he didn’t want this. He called me crazy. He wanted out.’

‘My dad,’ I said, testing the words. They felt strange, unfamiliar in my mouth.

Mum nodded slowly.

‘He’s out there. But I’m not. Not anymore. And neither are you.’

‘Shut it down.’ I growled suddenly. Anger bubbled inside my veins. I wasn’t real. She had created me, a monster of her own guilt. ‘Get rid of it. This whole world.’

Mum’s expression hardened. ‘No. I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’ My head snapped up.

‘I get rid of it, I die. There’s no going back for me. I don’t exist in the outside world anymore.’

She’d done it. She’d really done it. She’d given up everything to live in a virtual world with the daughter that she killed. The one who wasn’t even real.

I huffed out an incredulous laugh.

‘So, this is it?’ I spluttered. ‘This is where you spend the rest of your life? Inside a simulation, with people who aren’t even real?’

‘With you,’ she said. ‘I never could apologise for the things I said. The things I did. But in here, I can be who I never was out there. The last memory of you doesn’t have to be one where your bones are protruding through your skin and your skin is tinged red with blood. Here, your bones will never break. I made sure of that.’

I almost grinned at the incredulity of it all. Sure, I wasn’t real. I was trapped in a simulation and was nothing but a projection of a girl who died in the real world.

But at least I didn’t have honeycomb bones.