The Rebellion

Vera ran.

She didn't wait for dawn. She ran to the elevator, jamming the button until her finger bled. Silas didn't stop her. He just watched her go, a small, sad smile on his face.

She burst out of the Blackwood Tower into the 4:00 AM chill. She hailed a cab and gave her address.

"Take me home," she sobbed. "Just take me home."

She got to her apartment building. She ran up the three flights of stairs. She shoved her key into the lock.

It didn't turn.

She jiggled it. Nothing.

She pounded on the door. "Let me in!"

The door opened. A stranger stood there—a large man in a undershirt. "What the hell is your problem, lady?"

"This is my apartment!" Vera screamed. "Who are you?"

"I've lived here for five years," the man said. "Get lost, junkie."

He slammed the door.

Vera stood in the hallway. Her name was gone from the mailbox.

She pulled out her phone. She called Jenny.

* Beep. Beep. Beep.*

"Hello?" Jenny’s voice.

"Jenny! It's me! Vera! I need help. I'm locked out."

"Who?" Jenny asked.

"Vera! Your best friend! We went to art school together!"

"I... I don't know a Vera," Jenny said, sounding confused. "Is this a prank?"

* Click.*

Vera dropped the phone. It shattered on the linoleum.

She sat down on the dirty floor of the hallway. She looked at her hands. They were fading. Literally fading. She could see the grime of the floor through her fingertips.

Silas hadn't just paid her debts. He had bought her life. He had erased her from the waking world.

She tried to stay awake. She went to a 24-hour diner and drank four cups of coffee. She pinched herself until she bruised. She blasted music in her headphones.

But the sun began to set. And with the darkness came the pull.

A shadow fell over the table at the diner.

Vera looked up.

Silas stood there. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing the darkness of the city itself. The other patrons didn't notice him. They looked right through him.

"The sun is setting, Vera," Silas whispered. "It is time to come home."

"I don't have a home," Vera wept.

"Exactly," Silas said. "You have nothing but me."

He reached out a hand. "Come. You are tired."

Vera looked at the diner—the dirty grease stains, the flickering fluorescent lights, the greyness of her existence. Then she looked at Silas’s hand. It was the only solid thing in the world.

She took it.