#isolation

I awake with my body screaming with aches and horrible pain, my head pounding. A hard, stony surface below my sprawled out form greeted my eyes upon sitting up, harsh wind rushed through my hair; sea air by the smell of it. I took my time standing, meticulously moving each of my limbs to ensure stability, despite their shaking protests. The stone was firm and smooth. It wouldn’t crumble if you took a hammer to it; however, the violent gales threaten to throw me off. The howling in my ears…

Nineteen straight days. That’s how long this storm’s been sitting on top of us. The view outside my duplex is nothing but a grey smear, I can’t even make out the other houses. Roads are flooded, power’s out. It's just canned food and cold water now. They tried having us work from home at first, but that didn’t last long. Paid leave’s not the worst outcome, I guess even torrential storm clouds have silver linings.

She stopped as her legs ached from hours of walking. She had come far. Very far. The day and night seemed to intertwine; never being distinct if there could be said to be a circadian movement in the subtly shifting grey above at all. There did seem to be very occasional dim light patterns or movements in the misty sky, but she put it down to the trickery of her sleepy eyes. She closed and gently rubbed them before brushing a long strand of black hair out of the way. Determined to carry on, she…

Honestly when I mention this to people, no one else seems to remember this. I’m not sure why this seems to linger in my mind every night. When I mention the riots in 95 they talk about the riots in LA. They don’t remember the sirens screaming all night. They don’t remember the men in gas masks knocking on every door, telling us to leave. The shortages, the fear, the paranoia, the evacuations of entire cities, almost the whole state.

I'm going to die here, or maybe I can't. The only thing I have here is a pen that never seems to run out, and this book that has infinite pages and funnily enough is waterproof. I originally woke up in a strange room with yellow wallpaper, fluorescent lights that hummed, smelling the mold and mildew infesting the walls.

A wooden totem looms in the corner, its faces twisted and hungry in the lantern light. Every year, Father carves a new one—works of pride that terrify me, though I’d never say so. “Elam,” he calls, eyes on his work, “pass me the chisel.” It’s heavier than I expect, but light in his hands. He carves with masterful ease. “Want to try?”