This Is It

“The outside world was unknown to her, but she could see a glimpse of it through the window in his room.”

who knew the dust could listen so well? The air is thin and hot, my lips are chipped and cracked like the paint on the desolate walls around me. The house holds its breath. It has echoes of a past life that plays on repeat through the pictures strewn precariously throughout.

There are dents, holes, and cracks throughout this crumbling shell. It’s more of a comfort than the dead world outside. I often find myself staring at the pictures. They tell a story of a happy family, a quaint life. I tell their story to the dust and the dust sits around the pictures and listens.

The dust is kind and patient, it doesn’t shout or argue. The dust is very sweet. The world outside is dark and bleak. There is no life left, the world has been destroyed. This house remained, be it good structure or pure luck. I found refuge in my isolation.

I am like this house, the last one standing. The final hoo-rah to a once wonderful existence. The dust is settled in and myself along with it. There is a large window in the main room that shows me the misfortune of the world.

The earth is scorched and the trees are shells of themselves. Carcasses litter the ground in areas. They wait for the vultures that lay with them. Every day the air gets a little hotter. Each day I talk to the dust over a can of peaches or something other. Each day becomes a mark on the wall. Each day I stare out at the world, hoping for life or change.

It’s getting so hot, but my limbs are oddly feeling colder. My heart beats faster and my lungs burn. My head spins on occasion and I swear I see the dust move. What’s that? A flash of green outside? It can’t be but there it is. A few blades of grass grow around the carcasses. There is now some hope.

Another few days and my limbs are numb. The dust is definitely moving now and is trying to take form, into what? I do not yet know. I’m running low on food but I’m not too worried. The world outside is greener. The sky is now turning blue instead of the depressing grey gloom it’s been. I’m so cold, but still my lungs burn.

The days are now connecting, the lines I draw are now connected. Silly me there are no individual days! Just one long individual day! The dust is now a cat, it follows me around and begs for attention. I know that if it had eyes it would be begging for more stories.

Each day the sky get a little more clearer. I even thought I saw a cloud the other day! The dust cat is growing larger and is looking less like a cat with each day. I have a weeks worth of food left. The days, or rather, mark of the day that I continue to draw on the dingy wall takes the form of a rose. It’s beautiful and bitter to me. I hate it, I long for the day I leave.

The window is a portal. I looked through the rusted looking glass on the front door and found the world to still be desolate and grey. That can’t possibly be right? How can a window lead to a better world? The question itches in the back of my mind and eventually becomes a running joke.

The last two cans glare at me from the dining table. The dust figure is now humanoid and stands at 7 feet. It just listens, listens to my repetitional joke about the window. The window that now reveals a thriving garden with a rainbow to top off no less. I am impatient, I start pacing before it.

The dust figure finally does something and goes to the window. It raises its arms above its heads and beats against the window. The dust isn’t strong enough to fully impact it but I get the idea. “Thanks ol’ pal.” I say to it. The dust steps back, nods it’s head to me, then dissipates entirely.

My hands are trembling, today I bring myself to this garden. Today I escape this graveyard of a world. I hold my fist out and I hold my knuckles against the warm glass. I take a deep breath and as I do so I pull my fist back. I close my eyes dreaming of my wish.

Opening my eyes I exhale and slam my fist against the glass, shattering it. My wheelchair lurches forward a bit as I hit the air. I start coughing and wheezing harshly. As I settle, I look around my room. The pictures of my family are strewn around freely.

The grey rose set in a background of many shades of red, blazingly stands out against the pale grey bed sheets below it. A nurse shows up at my door and tuts. “Oh Mr. Gonzalez, fighting the air again I see?” I scowl, I am too old to be treated as a toddler. She doesn’t know the apocalypse I just escaped from. At my silence she continues, “it’s time for your TB meds!” She chimes.

I scowl even harder and I turn my wheelchair to look out the window of my room. The garden remains there, this time it is filled with elderly people happily conversing with one another. I have finally reached the new world, a world of peace. The nursing homes cat hops onto my lap and purrs loudly. I huff a laugh that becomes a harsh cough. “Silly thing.” I rasp as I gently pet the quiet little creature. She appreciated the world outside as I did, our little paradise.

The end