“Micke is visiting his parents in Överkalix,” Stina continues. “She needs all the help she can get now. And she needs peace and quiet.”
I nod, then look away. My eyes are drawn to the dark gray kitchen wall I helped paint. I remember just standing and looking at it one day. It was a few days after we’d heard about the comet. The wall still smelled faintly of paint, and I remember thinking, How pointless that we painted it when it’s going to disappear. It was the first time I really grasped what was happening.
I started crying then, and I start crying now.
“It’s going to be fine,” Stina says gently.
“How?” I say, wiping at my eyes.
She looks disappointed. I always disappoint them these days.
“I only mean that Emma coming home for a while will be good for us. We have to cherish the time we have left.”
“That means you, too, Simon,” Judette adds.
NAME: LUCINDA
TELLUS #0392811002
POST 0002
There were riots in Gothenburg last night. It started out as a spontaneous demonstration against the rationing system—a few thousand people thought “real Swedes” ought to get more than “the others.” The prime minister made a statement. Once again, she tried reminding us that Sweden is fortunate. It’s summer, so we have plenty of fruit and vegetables, and we have enough cattle to last us for years. “But it’s still unfair,” one of the demonstrators complained in the television studio. “I’ve paid my taxes my whole life. I should get more than them.” She means people who weren’t born here. I want to scream at her that it’s thanks to “the others” that our society is functioning as well as it is. Since we stopped using money, “the others” are overrepresented among the volunteers. They transport people with trains and food with trucks, make sure we have water in the taps and electricity in the wires. Not because “the others” are saintlier, but because their loved ones aren’t here. Of course they’re trying to create some sense of community rather than just sitting around alone, waiting for the end.
If you were able to look at our planet from space right now, you wouldn’t see any countries. The borders were never real; they’re only lines we drew on a map. Yet some people have built their entire identity on which side of said line they ended up on. I thought it would matter less now, but it seems to have gone the other way for a lot of people. Not for everyone; the ones who care just happen to be the loudest of the bunch. (And complete idiots. A lot of the time, those things go hand in hand.)
Maybe this is a good time to point out that people can be wonderful. I’ll probably forget to mention it often enough. If nothing else, I should get better at reminding myself of that. Catastrophes tend to bring out the best or the worst in us. And the vast majority are just trying to live their lives as best they can.
So what have I done with my life since you last heard from me? What have I done to grow as a person? What have I done to help others? I’ve mostly slept. And looked at pictures of my old friends.
Apparently, they threw a party at the pool tonight. They look so much younger in the photos than how I feel. Their eyes shine in their sweaty, tanned faces. Plastic bottles and cigarette butts float in the water. People I thought would never smoke pose with cigarettes dangling from their mouths. And why not? It’s not like anyone’s going to have time to develop cancer.
Tilda is in all the pictures. She still has the same broad shoulders and strong arms. The lean muscles on her back are clearly visible beneath her skin. It’s difficult to believe that I was ever as fit as she is. Body aside, though, Tilda’s changed. The Tilda I knew had barely had a drink in her entire life, and certainly never smoked. We never went to parties because, even during the weekends, we were getting up early to swim. Dad told me Tilda’s parents separated this summer. I wasn’t surprised to hear it; they’ve been unhappy for a while. But I don’t know how Tilda feels about it. I don’t know anything about her life anymore, other than what I see in the photos.
She was my best friend. She’s in all my most important memories. I can’t tell you who I am without also telling you about Tilda.
We were in that pool so much that I can describe every little crack in the floor, every hole in the ceiling above our heads. The chlorine made our eyes burn. It ate away at our swimsuits and our skin. The scent of it was everywhere. Seven, eight, nine practices a week, plus at least one competition. It was usually mind-numbingly boring and monotonous. And yet, I loved it. I lived for the small moments of bliss. The adrenaline kicking in right before a race. The few moments during practice when my body’s movements and my breathing were perfectly in sync. I felt more at home in the water than on land. Enveloped. Easy. Free. It was magical.
The pool was our place—Tilda’s and mine. Without her, I would never have started swimming, and I definitely wouldn’t have applied to a high school known for its champion swim team. She made me better. Our coach, Tommy, always said that we only compete against ourselves, but that didn’t stop me from competing against Tilda. It didn’t matter that I’d never be as good as her. No one could be. Elin, Amanda, and I fought for a decent second place. Tilda had what Tommy called a “winner’s mentality.” She had a whole plan laid out, from the Swedish Youth Swimming Championship to the national team to the Olympics. It was unrealistic. The chance of her succeeding was tiny. The chance of securing enough sponsorship to make a living was even smaller. And yet, I never doubted for a second that she’d pull it off.
Why am I even telling you this? Do you know what a competition is? A pool? I’m assuming you have water.
I can see the roof of Tilda’s house from my window. We used to cut through our backyards when we were little and wanted to play.
I saw her in real life about a week ago. It was early in the morning, and I’d decided to head downtown for the first time in a long time. I thought I wouldn’t bump into anyone I knew at that hour, but as I got closer, I heard a pounding bassline and shouting.
A group of girls stumbled along, arm in arm, singing “Save the World” by Swedish House Mafia.
Tilda was sitting in an open window, kissing some boy I’d never seen before. Her hair, which I’d envied even when I still had my own, glowed almost red in the morning sun. Her makeup was perfect, and I wondered where she’d learned how to do it. We hardly ever wore makeup.
Elin and Amanda were there, too. I escaped before anyone could see me.
What does seventeen years mean to you? Is it young or old? Can you imagine being young and already feeling old? Kind of used up? Can you understand what I mean when I say that I’ve been hiding for so long, I don’t know how to make my way back?
SIMON
The movie starts with an asteroid slamming into Earth and killing all the dinosaurs. A sea of fire engulfs the planet. The narrator informs us that it’s going to happen again; it’s just a matter of time.
No one says anything. Apart from the bombastic music, the only sound in the room is crunching from Hampus, who’s lying on the floor in front of the television eating chips with his mouth open. His T-shirt has slipped up, revealing a stomach that’s grown slightly pudgier this summer. Before, he and Sait went to the gym every day. All they talked about was protein shakes and shredding.