When Dalma starts wondering about creating a quiz app where you can find out what Scorpius Hawthorne character you are based on your End Day, she knows it’s time for bed.
She looks out her window, and sunlight is beginning to wake up her Bronx neighborhood.
It’s the start of a new day—and the beginning of a stranger’s End Day.
Valentino
6:30 a.m.
The alarm scares me awake; it’s like getting a Death-Cast call all over again.
It would’ve been nice to wake up and mistake my End Day for an ordinary Saturday, even for a few moments, but that wasn’t in the cards for me. At least I got to sleep for a couple hours where I didn’t have to worry about dying. No weird dreams or nightmares either. I silence the alarm and turn to find Orion still asleep, his lips slightly parted. I’ll let him rest for a bit longer.
I get out of bed with Orion’s phone, expecting to find some texts or missed calls from Scarlett when I remember she’s still in the air for another couple hours. There are messages from Dalma and Dayana asking Orion if he’s okay and I’ll leave those for him to answer.
I usually begin my mornings with mixing some electrolyte powder into my water bottle and going for a run. I can feel my body ready to go, but with the timing for my photo shoot, it’s simply not on the agenda today. My body also wants food, even something small like a handful of almonds, but according to Dalma I shouldn’t eat anything without risking the surgery. It’s a good thing my fridge is empty so I can’t be tempted, I guess. I use the bathroom and brush my teeth and then hop in a cold shower, which is great for circulation, but I’ve always loved hot showers, so I should bask in that too while I can. I switch from cold to hot, and I’m surprised the water runs well, considering so much about this building has been a lie so far.
I get out of the shower and wipe the fog off my mirror. I start applying my concealer, like I always do to hide my dark circles and look more alive. Except that’s the thing. As I look into the mirror, I don’t see a Decker looking back at me. I already look alive and well because I am alive and well. The only real suggestion that something is wrong is the cut on my forehead from banging my head on the curb, and I didn’t exactly bleed to death on the streets or in my sleep. I’m okay. Then why am I living a day where my sister is on her way to say goodbye and a boy is in my bed waiting for my heart? How come instead of focusing on all my hard work that has earned me this photo shoot, I’m spending the morning upset that life has other plans for me? I don’t know why life wants me dead.
This feels like a bad way to start the day. Though maybe that only applies to ordinary days, not End Days. On End Days there are no rules, so you can be angry and smash your reflection so you can actually see yourself shattered and look the part of someone who doesn’t have their life together. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there are rules for End Days and I have no way of knowing because this is the first one ever and I won’t get to see if this changes as time goes on.
I wrap a towel around my waist and go back into the studio space, dripping, to get some clothes. I crouch by my folded shirts and pants and try to figure out what’s the last outfit I’m choosing for myself before I’m fitted in RainBrand clothes for the photo shoot and a hospital gown for the surgery. I’ve only worn this sheer black top once, but it might attract some heat. My sportswear could be comfortable, but what if I die and become a ghost in a tracksuit? That’s not the way to go. I have tees from brands like Supreme and OriginalFake but they’re not setting the mood. I settle on the plain white shirt that really accentuates my shoulders, pecs, and arms, and I’m going to tuck it into my black jeans. I’ll pair that with my white sneakers that haven’t properly seen the light of the day; it’s time to wear them in while I can.
I’m returning to the bathroom to get dressed when I slip on a puddle of water and slam right down on my back.
The fall knocks the breath out of me, but another follows.