WATTYS 2023 SHORTLIST
Cara, a troubled college dropout, finds herself slowly falling for a handsome stranger - who turns out to be Death incarnate. But the arrival of a mysterious being puts Death's home for lost souls and his very existence at risk...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Did you know that young women have a one-in-fifty chance of dying every time they step outside of their home? Scary, right? Those stats are enough to turn even the most devout extroverts into cowering, Boo Radley-esque hermits.
To be completely honest, I made up that statistic just now. But it feels true, doesn't it? With every bump in the taxi-clogged street and suspicious glance from my Uber driver – who is most definitely not adhering to the speed limit – I certainly feel closer and closer to certain death.
Death. I think about it far too often now, way more than a typical 28-year-old grad student should. But I can't help it, after the past few years that I've had. It feels like a part of me now, and if I try to ignore it it pokes at me and whines like a needy toddler. So, I don't ignore death. I face it head-on, where I know it won't sneak up on me. In fact, I'd wager that death and I are good friends.
Without warning, the Uber driver swerves at the last moment to avoid crushing a ballsy pedestrian, and my hand shoots up to white-knuckle the handle above the door while my heart drops deep into my bowels.
I fucking hate New York.
"So, where ya headed, miss?" Immediately, I wonder if I should answer the stranger's question. He seems nice enough (if you overlook his multiple attempts at crashing into other cars), but he could also be a serial killer posing as an unshaven, aloof rideshare driver. He could be plotting right this moment to zip-tie my hands together, cover my face in duct tape, and dump me in his apartment that smells like cat pee and cheap microwave dinners.
You never know.
You're my best friend, but you are utterly psychotic, Analia's judgy voice growls in my head. I ignore her.
"The Bronx," I reply, keeping my response as vague as possible. If I hide my fear, maybe he'll think I'm boring prey and let me go. Real killers are all about the chase, right?
Psychotic, Analia's voice reiterates.
"I can see that," the driver says, nodding at the GPS on his cracked iPhone 8. "But this is a big city. You've got to have someplace in mind."
"I'll find it when I get there," I say curtly, signaling the end of the conversation. But either I'm horrible at sending out signals or this man is determined to continue the conversation, because it doesn't end there.
"Why didn't you take the subway? It's a short enough ride."
I scoff, gripping my overpacked duffel bag to my chest. "Being trapped in a high-speed tube with God knows how many people at the start of flu season? No thanks."
Maybe I'd laid my anxiety-driven pessimism on a little thick, but at least it did the trick of quieting the driver. Until—
