Scorpion String | Chapter 6

Serial Fiction | Novel Draft

—Diane—

In the dim light just before sunrise, I awaken.

My body is wracked with waves of nausea.

I shiver with a fever.

Turning on my side, I seek a fragment of comfort, my eyes instinctively finding Matthew in the faint, ghostly light.

A memory slowly dawns on me, echoing Matthew’s question from what feels like a lifetime ago, “Did you consider my story?” The thought pierces my mind—the notion that belief in Jesus might have indeed offered some shield, sparing my family from the infernal past three years.

As this idea of their salvation takes root, my stomach convulses violently, propelling me into a fit of vomiting. The fever raging within me, fueled by my delirious mind, sends my body into spasms of uncontrollable shaking. I gag. My throat burns, and I vomit again. The acrid taste of bile fills my mouth, a cruel reminder of my frail state.

I hate this world.

I hate this life.

I feel the vomit on my face. But I’m too sore, too tired to attempt removal.

My life has always been a tapestry of absence and fleeting connections. Born on June 1st, 2019, in Virginia Beach, I saw my father walk away while I was still toddling, leaving nothing but a shadow in my memory—or perhaps I just know the memory of a memory. My biological mother, lost in her own struggles, was a fleeting presence, leaving me to the mercy of social services before I could even fully grasp the concept of family.

The world has always been cruel.

A string of foster homes was my reality until Sue and John Swan entered my life at fourteen. They didn’t just fill the role of foster parents—they chose me, legally adopting me and offering me a semblance of a real family. I miss them so much. If only I had known then what I know now.

My teenage rebellion was a test of their love—a challenge they met with unwavering patience and care. Despite my defiance, John and Sue’s presence was a constant source of comfort and guidance, their love a steady anchor in my tumultuous life.

I hadn’t seen it that way then, but I see it all too well now.

The night of the “Great Purging” shattered the stability they had provided me. It was a regular evening, the three of us curled up on the couch, engrossed in the classic movie “Mulan” on our expansive 64k wall TV. As the credits rolled and my adoptive parents stood, extending their habitual invitation to church, the world as I knew it irrevocably changed. In an inexplicable, unfathomable instant, they vanished right before my eyes.

In the ensuing shock, I was rooted to the spot, my mind grappling with the surreal reality. The immediacy of their disappearance, their sudden absence, felt like a nightmarish illusion. Frantically, I dialed 911, only to be met with endlessly busy lines and unavailable service.

Panic-stricken, I stumbled outside, my screams for help dissolving into the night, unanswered and lost amidst a chorus of similar cries from neighboring houses.

In the solitude of the predawn hours, as I lie feverish and broken, my mind repeatedly wanders back to that night. The puzzling memory of my parents’ disappearance, once a source of confusion and skepticism, now takes on a new meaning—a new understanding. My feverish brain toys with the idea of “The Rapture,” as Matthew had called it, a concept I had dismissed but now seems eerily plausible.

It makes more sense than any of the original explanations. It makes more sense that people like my family were saved from this hell than branded evil and worthy to be purged from this world.

A groan from Jack pulls me back to the moment. The overwhelming mound of locusts is gone. I don’t know where they went or why they left, but I’m grateful. Despite the increasing agony of their bitter stings, I find comfort in their fleeting presence.

I look at Jack, but he is still covered in a crawling nightmare of locusts.

Exhausted and delirious, I muster the remnants of my strength, my voice a mere whisper, “God, if you’re there, please help me.” My plea is soft, almost inaudible, drifting away like a whisper on the faintest breeze. Vomit clings to my face, trickling down my chin, a stark, visceral testament to my physical and emotional torment.

Each sting from the locusts sears through me with increasing intensity, a crescendo of agony that seems to know no bounds. The pain, so severe, so deep, feels as if only death or a pound of heroin could offer respite. I can’t fathom the pain growing any more unbearable. Yet, a grim realization looms within my fevered mind—it could get worse.

And it would get worse.