The Thirteenth

Man. The weirdest thing is that so many things I thought would be different are not; and others I miss completely.

There’s, like, no one around. Yet, the grocery store is still there; rather bare-boned and staffed by two people, but I never figured on it being there. I have been here so many years, I had finally acclimated to the people-sounds that jarred me when I first moved from the old Napier house. Lawn mowers, voices, traffic, voices. The silences would be refreshing if I didn’t know why they are here.

There’s only one gas station, but its still open and fairly cheap. No traffic to speak of, no idiots making you crazy. Still, it occasionally feels creepy, that twilight zone feeling, of is this a dream or real? Like, am I dead too and just don’t know it? Its not like my town was ever a metropolis, but still.

I try not to dwell on creeping myself out.

I try not to think at all most days. I would kill him if he weren’t already dead for leaving me alone like this. Or kill myself for not dying with them.

We argued. We argued and argued, and he called me tin-foil hat and berated me for risking our son’s life out of paranoia. He swore the government would never inoculate people with bad strains, and it was our only chance to survive the pandemic.

I cried, I begged. We quit going out at all, and taped the windows up, wore masks. I cited statistics until I was blue in the face. I proved time and again, that people who took the shot were dying. I wore him down. Or so I thought.

Within 24 hours, they were dying. The horror on his face is indelibly printed in my mind, when he realized what he had done by sneaking out with my son and going to the local PD for their shots. The agony of watching them die, the apologies and self-loathing and utter despair. It killed me twice.

I held my son as he begged not to die, for me to save him. He cried so hard, saying he shouldn’t have listened to Daddy, should have woke me up. He felt guilty too, the sweet boy. Guilty for dying. Fuck. Just Fuck. I tried so hard to make him not feel that way for his last thoughts, to bathe him in love.

I cannot write this anymore, not about that.

Write. Write. Why do I still write to you on a blog that still exists, with no one left to hear? I’m writing to dead people. Man. I AM losing my mind. I haven’t seen one of you on in 3 or 4 weeks. This all happened so fast.

I knew they would come, they came door to door for the bodies, but I wouldn’t let them have them. No mass grave. No. I guess I have to talk about it more. I wrapped them in tarps and took them three doors down and torched a house. Yeah. Mike wanted to be cremated and they weren’t getting them. I thought briefly about making a huge bonfire, but was too sickened to see it that close, afraid of seeing it, afraid of the smell, afraid I would jump in and pull them back out. The houses are all empty anyway, so I just burned one for my boys. I stood vigil for hours until the last flame died out. Stood. Not really. I knelt, rocked, keened, moaned. I rubbed ashes on my face. Like a crazy woman in the movies.

So, here I am. There are still utilities and I’m in this house, and no bills have come in. I guess the bill collectors all croaked to. Fuck them. Its not like I couldn’t just go to any house in the neighborhood and move in. There are plenty of cupboards to raid, and no one left to object.

I miss the Weather Channel. There’s five cable channels and four of them are news crap, or NO NEWS crap… because face it. How much can the few of us left do that is newsworthy? I suppose I am unamazed how many made it in Washington. But really? I don’t think this is what they expected. Wooo-wooo, you are  now the bosses of nobody. Nobody gives a fuck what you do. You killed us, but you are dead inside too now. I don’t even feel rage anymore. I feel nothing. The other channel shows movies. I’m not much up for that these days, either. Humor pales and drama stings. Why do they bother pretending things are normal?

They culled the herd. So where’s the great society? All I see is vacant eyes, and lost souls.

12 out of 13 dead. Just like those fucking stones said.

I have none of you with me, as I wished in brighter times. God, I wish one of you was still here. Just one reply that said someone I cared about on this god-forsaken planet made it.

I find myself just staring into space. A lot. This is how I’ll live out my days? This is sustainable paradise? This is hell.

I always found myself, while loving individual people, just wanting to be away from them for long stretches. Got no choice now. The ones left I cannot bring myself to bond with. Too much horror in us all, and no desire to share my or their pain.

So. What-fucking-ever. Meaningless unread words of self indulgence in an empty life on an empty blog, in an empty world.

There it is.

I’m a 13. Alone.