I have a mind-canon theory that this is an apocalyptic event and that this ultimately eats the world or comes damn close; but just as that starts happening, the story leaves the realm of the intimate and personal, and so becomes less interesting to me.

Dystopias feel very cathartic to me. In times of prolonged uncertainty, which we are squarely in right now—a pandemic, climate crisis, global political destabilization—the “crisis” can remain, for some people, ambient, or chronic. It might never become acute, or the cascading crises may be too complex or too nonstop to be able to process. That can lead to something called “disenfranchised grief,” a grief that’s displaced, not recognized, or not able to be mourned socially.

A documentary about the unsolved murder of a young woman got me thinking about what we call justice for murder victims. These quests help family and communities heal, and of course murderers should be kept from hurting anyone else, but it breaks my heart that the victims will never know about any justice. It’s over for them. And meanwhile, more women fall victim to violence at the hands of men who aren’t held accountable. It made me sad and furious.

About a decade ago, I was sitting around at a convention with some other writer types, and we were talking about urban legends and creepy kids’ games and the like. Someone (I don’t remember who) mentioned there was one of these types of games called “The Closet Game,” and because I write spooky stuff and also queer stuff, my writerly brain immediately paired the name with a metaphor for someone struggling with life in the closet.