It's been a while, hasn't it?
I seem to be starting every post with that these days. I don't think I really write less than I used to, but I certainly post less of what I write. Or maybe I just feel more of an obligation to post frequently, now that I split my time between this and our Tumblr.
I remember how frightened I was at the concept of starting a blog there. I imagined being insulted by people who I had come to imagine I knew after peering into the tiny glimpses of their lives which they presented online. Would my stories be hated? Would my amateurish drawings be mocked? Would my persona be attacked?
Instead, I found silence.
This is the only capacity in which I really post online, so maybe my expectations were unrealistic. But to finally overcome that fear, to accept that vulnerability and open myself up to others with my best foot forward, to be met with absolute apathy...
Well, I'm not owed anything, of course. But it's strangely discouraging, after a lifetime of storing completed manuscripts deep in folders and drawers and printing little chapbooks to hide away, to realize that I needn't ever have bothered. The text I set down here is no more impactful than the grocery lists I scrawl across scrap paper and toss at the end of the day.
One day these empty apologies will be the only content we post, and then there will be nothing new at all. Just an abandoned site left to await the day the server blinks out, and all of this is lost forever.
– ♥, Nacchi
Small flecks of white drift gently down beyond the frosted glass of the windowpane. Snow, glittering in the early-morning light, slowly piles against the concrete foundations and twisted rebar outside, stretching over potholed pavement in uneven tracts like flesh growing over a wound. Winter has come early this year, it seems.
I make my way to the back of the convenience mart and stoke the fire. It crackles cheerfully as it burns through a hardwood table, sending up little sparks that quickly vanish into the cold air. After some time I untie the tarp and step out into the frozen world. The soft static of falling snow lays like a thick blanket over the remains of the city, a stillness deeper than silence. I have to collect water now, while it’s still safe enough to drink.
After filling several coolers, I scoop up some of the new snow in a pan and head back inside. Heating the pan over the fire, I remove one of my last chocolate bars from the wrapper and chop it on the front counter. A white, powdery substance covers the brittle candy. I must have held onto it for too long, but I had wanted to save it for a day just like this. Soon there will be no more left within walking distance.
The rhythmic thud of the knife against the counter brings back faded memories of warm kitchens and old friends, and I chop until the bar is nearly a creamy powder. I was good at cooking once, I think. It’s become hard to remember what life was like before all of this. I suppose that’s probably for the best.
Scooping the chocolate into a plastic container, I add it to the pot and stir until the hot chocolate is glossy and smooth. Thick, almost unbearably rich and just as hot. I savor it slowly, trying to commit to memory the sensation against my tongue, the tastes of cocoa butter and milk and sugar. Even if I forget, I want to be able to recall something like this. At the end of history, there’s nothing left to do but pile up empty memories.
I find ways to pass my time while the snow rises against the remaining glass. Repairing tools, checking supplies, humming the same songs I’ve hummed for years as the uncertain notes proliferate. I can only hope that there are enough resources left around here for me to pass the rest of my time in comfort. Moving is a risk I don’t want to take, and anyway, I can’t stand the thought of leaving all of my things behind and starting over again.
Besides, what would be the point?
The twitches have already started, tapping out their own crazed rhythm alongside that of my heartbeat. Even if I had the energy to drag myself away, I would only be losing one more thing.
The setting sun dyes the fresh snow a deep blue, and the snow flurries cease just before night has properly settled. Then the Milky Way emerges, sprinkling the clear sky with millions of stars. To think that something so magnificent could have hidden for so long behind the dull gray pollution of streetlights and signs. The last thing I see as I close my eyes is the cosmos twinkling overhead.
A chilly dawn creeps into the convenience mart, rousing me from a deep slumber. I yawn and stretch, feeling every time I’ve slept on concrete or asphalt deep in my bones. Outside the snow is high and fresh, blanketing the earth as far as I can see.
Although it’s beautiful, the start of winter also means that bitterly cold days and long, dark nights are on their way. I scarf down a quick breakfast, throw a jar of peanut butter into my backpack and uncover a boarded-up window. I should have already gathered food and fuel for the winter.
Stick in hand, I trek through the snow. Last year I was able to move much more quickly and travel much farther. Then, at the start of summer, I first noticed a creeping exhaustion setting in. At first I convinced myself it would pass, but as the days grew colder it only grew, and now...
Well, I’ll just have to find something nearby.
Most of the shops have become dusty museums, filled with nothing of value to anyone. Rusted-out bikes fallen from crumbling walls, peeling linoleum flooring, bells that will never ring again rusted solid against useless doors. A vague nostalgia, or perhaps sympathy, tugs at me as I pass them. All so carefully laid out, waiting for customers who will never come. One day there won’t be any sign that they were ever here at all.
I need to find something deep within the sprawl, some untouched place worth the trip. I pull out my map. No ordinary city map, this. Patterns and symbols and blacked-out areas denote resources and hazards and impassable terrain. It is nearly complete by now, but a few blank spaces remain—mostly on the peripheries, but there are also a few areas of interest I’ve circled and never bothered returning to.
I try the nearest one. Even the short distance seems to take me an eternity, and the damp cold begins to seep in through my protective clothing. I feel a flash of annoyance at myself for not bundling up more securely—if there’s one thing not in short supply these days, it’s clothing. Formless jackets, drab shirts and piles of rubber sneakers still line shelves, slowly disintegrating in the musty air.
As I pass a strip of decimated restaurants a cough doubles me over, rattling my lungs. The air is too cold and too dry. Still, leaning heavily on my stick, I continue onward to my destination, dragging my feet in twin furrows across the snow. I have no choice but to go on.
The buildings thin out as I follow the road, and then a mall looms into view. I have no intent of stopping there, but the moment the promise of shelter enters my mind my feet refuse to take another step past the entrance.
It’s immediately clear that no one has been in this building for quite some time. Dust as pale as the snow outside lies thick over the marble flooring, and silk trees shed their leaves into a dry fountain. I break into another fit of coughing as the dust enters my lungs before thinking to cover my mouth and nose with an undershirt.
Without really knowing why, I find myself trudging into the depths of the mall. A jewelry store remains barred to possible thieves, spared for eternity by the utter worthlessness of its contents. The faded faces of models peer out from yellowing posters, slowly succumbing to moisture, light and time. I pass it all, uneven footsteps echoing strangely in the silence.
The food court. Though I already know it’s useless I still find myself pressing against the counters, checking for any fortune cookies or stale bread that may have remained somehow edible. Of course, there’s nothing.
I go to take a seat, and then freeze.
From the other end of the food court a sign beckons:
Hot Topic.
The storefront looks nearly untouched, and I can’t resist its strange call. Whether it’s because fond memories of dragging my parents there still glow faintly at the back of my mind or out of some dim hope that boxes of kitschy candy and energy drinks might still be inside, I am drawn to the storefront. Someone has already disdainfully removed the lock on the security grille, and I begin to roll it up.
The strain proves too much for my degraded body and a series of wheezing coughs doubles me over. I taste copper on the back of my tongue as I finish the task and step inside, stick striking heavily against the threshold.
Plastered to the walls and still lining the shelves in neat rows, I see them. Posters and vinyl figures and t-shirts and collectible cards, peeking out from the dust. All asking the same questions.
“Do you remember the ‘80s?,” they scream out from all around me. “Do you remember the ‘90s?”
My body contorts around another fit of coughs that seems to go on forever. The sudden shift in weight sends the stick slipping out from under me, and I strike the tile floor hard. Vision swimming, chin and nose sticky with the blood saturating my undershirt, I strain to focus on the movie poster dancing across my eyes.
I do! I do remember the ‘80s!
I do remember the ‘90s!
It all comes back to me, and I laugh in delight, ragged, painful chortles punctuated by gasps.
I remember it all. I haven’t lost a thing.
I remember it all!
My body shudders with laughter, a rattling laughter that echoes throughout the silent mall.
