The Little Things

432 days since it last rained. 206 since the reservoir reached critical capacity; 55 since it dried up entirely. 673 days since they recommended we wear oxygen masks and radiation suits outside, 330 since we couldn’t breathe or move outside without them.

All of these tallies run continually in the back of my mind. They’re etched into my cabin wall too, although that’s hardly necessary when they might as well be tattooed to the inside of my eyelids when I close them to sleep. What I really want to know is if this whole time I’ve been counting upwards, somewhere there’s been a timer counting down – ticking, tracking, inching toward the day that it’s all over. The Earth can only sustain life without water so long.

As I open my eyes for another long day of surviving, there’s only one thing that motivates me to get out of bed. The mattress squeaks and my thinning 26-year-old bones creak as I stretch my arms up high and my toes out long, smiling at the thought of what is only 7 hours away – almost within reach now. I swallow my dry hydration powder and cough, my sore throat longing for the quenching coolness of water it will never feel again. Next the chewable sustenance pill, tasting faintly of processed beef and carrots. Even though it’s just an echo of a flavour, my mind is transported to a different time; family around a table, potatoes and gravy and roast beef. It’s fuzzy now, but one of my only memories of the time before this all began. I close my eyes, wanting so badly to remember, to cherish, to savour it. But in seconds it’s floating away like a leaf down a stream, at least the way it would have when we still had those.

At some point I fall asleep again, I don’t know how long for. My energy suffers from the minimal nourishment they provide us and sleep often comes unexpectedly. When I wake again, I see the Sun is in a position that informs me I need to leave. I quickly pull on my radiation suit and pick up my Freedom Ration Card, the only currency afforded us these days. Fitting my oxygen mask over my face and the tank over my shoulders, I open the first door out of the cabin and seal it again, making sure the oxygen supply remains steady on the gage before I release the second door and leave. From this point on every step is hard work and every breath is laboured. The Sun is hotter than ever, creating shimmering pools of blinding light on the surface of the red dirt road. The heart-shaped locket on my wrist catches the light and flashes in my eyes, a reminder of the random woman pictured inside who I pretend means something to me. Ahead of me is a four-hour journey that would have taken 20 minutes in the time before.

Every time I walk this road I wonder if I’ll make it. In minutes I can feel the sweat dripping inside my suit and my meagre muscles begin to ache. I trudge along anyway, knowing that there’s a purpose in the pain, and that at least the walk fills some hours in my empty day. A few times I pass another person carrying cans of soup or dehydrated vegetables – reminders of the lives we lived before this became our reality. A month’s worth of Freedom Ration could afford one the nostalgia of a ‘real’ meal or a taste of the past. Freedom doesn’t mean what it used to, and definitely doesn’t buy as much as it once did.

Eventually I round the corner to the Village Market and I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face. I’ve been waiting for this all month. As I enter through the double door seal and take off my mask the shopkeeper sees me, immediately matching my expression – he knows me by now. “Miss Smith, you’re here for some Broccoli I suppose,” comes his cheeky quip, accompanied by a wink. Such cordial interaction isn’t really allowed anymore lest human connection lead to reproduction, but it’s these moments that remind me I’m alive after all. Countering his jeer with a frown and a huff, I pull out my Freedom Ration Card and slam it on the counter. “None of that nutrition for me, what a waste of time” I exclaim with exaggerated disgust. Smiling, he hands me the small container that holds exactly what I want. I smile and slide him the card, already spinning toward the small table in the adjacent dining room. “See ya next time Mr Jones!” is my hurried farewell. “See you in a month,” is his distant reply.

Sitting down, I remove the bright pink lid and try to slow down as I lift the first perfect cube to my mouth. I close my eyes as it melts and covers my tastebuds in artificial strawberry heaven. I savour every second of this taste that is more than just a memory. Astronaut Ice Cream: the last remaining joy of my existence.