The Unwilling Resistance

I fell to my knees as if revisiting the pews from my Catholic childhood and closed my left eye in order to gaze through the ancient keyhole of a door that separated me from certain doom and uncertain, possible doom. Astigmatism be damned; I’d have rather risked losing an eye than spend another second in that god forsaken place. I had enough experience genuflecting in my youth to afford me kneecaps of steel—and for good reason too—because I couldn’t tell if I was perched on top of shrapnel or shards of bone. The warzone expanded westward and while none of us expected it, we also couldn’t hold a candle to any false promises that came from the militant leaders. And how could we? They sat cozy and confined in their well-lit fortresses and I—along with a few hundred poor bastards—sat without so much as a glimmer of light, or hope.

It was there, in a makeshift shelter, that I made a pact with my friends to survive no matter what. We didn’t want to become a resistance; we just wanted to make it to New Year’s. I always found it bizarre to be labeled resistant when all I wanted to do was survive. Resistance made me think of a disease, an infection—something that did not belong. I guess, in the grand scheme of things, it was effective propaganda. So, our group objective to watch the ball drop became an act of rebellion.

That goal was compromised, of course, when the westward expansion began, and we started to replace our deadline with Christmas. Eventually the goal of Christmas became, “Well, let’s see if we have food for Thanksgiving.” Then, against any of my own expectations, I was alone. Dull thrums of bombs and guns around me became a welcome distraction against the crushing silent reminder that I outlived my friends. Some nights, during the ceasefire, I could hear others outside whisper amongst each other. I’d pretend it was my group of compadres, coming back from foraging with candles or batteries or food.

Food. My one weakness (not including water, sleep, sunlight, and an unquenchable thirst for learning and critical thinking). The need for sustenance was what ultimately led to my keyhole confessional, this internal last Will and Testament to whom it may concern. If there was a God, I would hope all factors of this unintended existence would be taken into account; I didn’t want to kill that man, but it was him or Jenna, and he had a gun. That’s how we met. She wasn’t a soldier, or a resistance fighter—she was a barista knee-deep in student loans. Was. Wherever she went, I hoped day and night that she was alive. She went out to forage one day and never came back, and I was too goddamn scared to go look for her. Does God forgive cowardice?

I spent too much time alone. My mind wandered to the shadows painted by the single keyhole in my little hideaway. I tore through cans of food and ate rice dry from a bag; I exhausted all of my resources and eventually my sanity. Death out there was better than dying in a prison of my own design.

As I did my best to acclimate my eyesight to the blinding sun that lay just beyond the steel door, I thought of my mother and the first time we went to the beach as a family. The transition from our car to the parking lot was violent, but it was one of the best days of my life once I made my way to the ocean’s shore. The thought of salt water made me salivate. Enough horsing around. Time to meet my maker. I stood, using the door’s handle to steady myself. Bits of junk, once imprinted into my knees, fell to the floor in wisps and clunks, sprinkled all around my feet. I padded around my cargo pants for the key I used to lock the door the last time I saw Greg. He instructed me to shut myself in and promised he’d come back, but that was almost two weeks ago. Two weeks alone, and almost ten months resisting.

That felt more like hiding, like giving up. Once I found the key, I jammed it into the lock. On the other side of that door, I decided, I’d either find friends or be reunited with my mother on the beach. The rusted, reluctant tumblers gave way until the door finally unlocked. With a deep and terrified breath, I turned the handle, key still in the lock. I wouldn’t need it again.