A headache comes creeping up on me, a warm, throbbing glow inside my skull. “Do you realize how worried I’ve been?” Judette says. “Don’t you think I’ve heard how crazy it was out there?”
“I just wanted to be with my friends. They’re important to me, too.”
“Simon.” Judette sighs. “This is destructive.”
“So? What does it matter? It’s almost over, anyway.”
“I get that it feels that way, but are you actually having fun? Because this doesn’t look like fun.”
Now the headache presses against the backs of my eyes. I carefully sip the water Judette gave me. It barely reaches my stomach before it threatens to come back up again.
“I’m having loads of fun,” I say. “I’m having the time of my life.”
“And how are you going to feel tomorrow?” she says, but cuts me off me before I can respond. “And don’t say it doesn’t matter.”
I shut my mouth again.
“We have to do the best we can with the time we have left,” Judette says.
I look at her dark eyes, her skin glowing in the light from the ceiling lamp. I miss her so much. I miss my old life. And all those things I don’t want to think about are threatening to catch up with me.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I say quietly.
She leans across the table. “It isn’t easy for any of us. But you can’t figure it out like this.”
Judette’s voice is warm, so warm she could melt something inside me, make the feelings rush out. I don’t want to cry right now. I’m so sick of crying.
I clear my throat to rid myself of the lump in there. “Where’s Stina?”
“She’s doing a home visit.”
The way Judette says it tells me all I need to know. Another suicide. Stina takes care of the loved ones left behind by those who can’t bear waiting around for the comet. Some people prefer to take matters into their own hands. Get it over with. I had a hard time understanding it at first. It seemed so contradictory, killing yourself because you were afraid to die. But sometimes, I feel like I understand it all too well—only occasionally and briefly. I could never really hurt myself.
At least, I don’t think so.
“When did she leave?”
“Ten thirty. I haven’t told her you didn’t come home, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s for her sake, not yours. I didn’t want her to worry. But I’m going to tell her tomorrow.”
“Great.”
Judette’s eyes narrow.
“I’m going to get my shit together,” I say. “I promise.” My words hang in the air, sounding empty and false.
“I’m going to hit the shower before work,” Judette finally says before stretching.
“Why shower before work?”
Judette has gone from working at the flower shop to volunteering with garbage disposal. The comet has pushed her to the other end of the olfactory spectrum.
“I have to wake myself up somehow,” she says. “God, let it be Thursday soon so we can get new coffee rations.”
She rubs her face and gets to her feet. Boomer raises his head expectantly, but she just pats him distractedly and heads out of the kitchen.
“Set the alarm,” she yells. “You’re taking him out for his morning walk.”
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0005
The garbage truck woke me up around ten. Miranda’s knees were shoved against my back, and her scrawny body emitted snores louder than seemed physically possible. When Dad came home a little later, I gave up on going back to sleep and joined him for breakfast.
He seemed so tired that I suddenly envisioned what he would have looked like if he had the chance to grow old. He looked more like grandpa than ever.
Dad asked me how I was feeling, and I replied, “All right. I just have a touch of cancer,” and he said, “You’d do anything for attention, wouldn’t you?” It’s not a super normal way to talk, but we’ve been doing it since I got my diagnosis. It’s how we deal with it.
I told him about Miranda’s questions about the comet, but didn’t mention my own anxiety. It wasn’t the right time. And what was he supposed to do about it? He would’ve just worried about me, and he’s already done enough of that. I made us oatmeal, noticing how happy he was when I went back for another half-serving.
We watched the morning news. The same inferno has been raging throughout the country, throughout every square and city park where the game was screened. Dad told me about his night in the ER. Lacerations were sutured. Skulls were x-rayed. Stomachs were pumped.
Fights. Rapes. Overdoses. Manslaughter. Vandalism. It was almost as bad as when we first heard about the comet and people lost their minds. If I have a hard time remembering the goodness in the world, it must be even harder for Dad. He has to see the results of humanity’s worst instincts and impulses. (Then again, I think Dad is a better person than I am. He thinks the best of everyone until he’s proven wrong. Sometimes, I’m afraid I’m the exact opposite.) Anyone who’s ever had a secret urge is satisfying it now. Seize the day. The chance of being caught and held accountable is slim to none. There aren’t enough police officers left, no time for investigations or trials, not to mention prison sentences.
There aren’t enough people at the hospital, either. No time for long-term treatments. Dad keeps going in to work. He says he has to because so many people need doctors right now, but I think he does it for his own sake, too. It’s his way of feeling like himself again, despite the world changing. I would do the same thing if I could.
I need to get out of the house. Maybe take a walk down to the lake. If I cut through the woods, I probably won’t risk meeting anyone.
Write more later.
SIMON
The air is hot and humid. There’s no breeze as I run along the rolling hills on the other side of the lake. I’m dripping with sweat. Boomer looks up at me with a huge doggy smile, thrilled to be off-leash. Now and then he stops, sniffing around a bush or at some interesting spot in the grass. His tail points straight up like a white plume.
When the forest starts to get thicker around the trail, I pull my phone out of my pocket. Still no response from Tilda to the message I sent last night. I promise myself not to check again before I get home.
Not that I want to go home. Stina was so angry at me for going into town last night she cried.
I speed up, even though the hangover pounds through my body, and it feels like my heart is going to burst inside my chest. Loud music pulses in my ears. I keep my arms tight against my sides, focusing on my feet hitting the ground, which is strewn with woodchips and bark.
Soon it’ll all be gone, Tilda said the morning when we’d heard about the comet.
The ground beneath my feet. And the lake. And the birch trees. And Boomer.
A sudden feeling of vertigo almost trips me up, but I force myself to keep going. Now I can glimpse the old waterslide between the trees, once turquoise, now bleached to some noncolor. A tarp covers the pool. The ice cream stand is shut. The mini golf courses haven’t been used for a long time. I push myself harder for the final stretch, run to the beach, then stop and put my hands on my knees, breathing hard, the taste of blood in my mouth. New beads of sweat push through my skin.