Unravel

The world is ending and they don’t even notice. How can they not notice? They sit here on this bus, some with their eyes closed, or smiling towards the sun, laughs that reverberate against the window where my cheek rests. I consider, for a moment, telling everyone of their fate; I feel bitter that I have to carry this burden alone. Each row of seats sat in pairs. At least they won’t die alone. The cacophony of chatter grows as the bus pulls to its stop, and I decide against telling them. It won’t matter anyways. Perhaps they deserve to go peacefully, even if I’m not afforded that luxury. The sky may be clear, the weather temperate, but the world is ending. I’m the only one who knows it.

The wind whips past me as I step from the bus, a whispered elegy in my ear. The towering, stone buildings that surround me make me feel as if I am entombed. Above, a plane engine sounds, and I can’t tell if it’s flying over us or toward us. It grows louder, closer, and my breath becomes shallow. My heart stops, pausing until the noise fades away and the plane passes overhead. I follow the road signs to a building whose only distinction from the other mausoleums is the sign stating Slate Springs Behavioral Health Services. As I catch my reflection in the glass door, I think it must be an illusion. Wild hair, tired eyes, mouth turned down; I don’t recognize this haunted girl who stares back. The dread I feel amplifies as I step inside.

Even my therapist, trained as she should be, stares at me with pity etched on her face. I briefly consider, not for the first time, if she’s a quack. I think she mustn’t be meant for this job and wonder if, when she goes home at night, she cries for her patients. We sit across from each other inside her office with a plaque on the door that reads: Dr. Melissa Collins, LPC. She in her ebony, straight-back office chair, and I in the overstuffed, blindingly lime-colored couch. This glassy-eyed woman in front of me often looks like she’s the one in need of comfort. Canyons of creases line her forehead, probably from years of stress at this job. Those creases dip considerably as I stare, stalling, trying to think of a way to tell her of the world’s end. I feel sorry for her, this worrisome woman in front of me who has to spend her final moments trying to console a basket case. I have already accepted the inevitable.

The sound of the wall clock tick-tick-ticking threatens like a bomb in my ears. An anxiety-inducing countdown and I don’t know when it will reach zero. Maybe I should tell her I’m the only one who can stop this, even if I’m not sure there’s any truth in that. Earth has stopped dead in its rotation. I swear the sun is growing closer, it wasn’t quite so big yesterday. My thoughts aren’t always linear and I don’t know how to get the words out. There is chaos in my brain and he was the only one who could help me through it.

Was.

I pick at the fabric of the gauche-green couch, desperate for something to do with my hands and eyes. “Julianna, we should talk about what you’re going through; how you’re dealing with everything after Jesse ...” She drones on but her voice sounds far away; small, tinny, a muffled murmur in the background. I stare out the window and the sounds of the street pour in. I am enveloped in the brakes, and horns, and birdsong, and chattering crowds. All of them ignorant to what's coming. The world is loud today and I wonder if it’s always been this way, or if the end amplified the sounds of everything we’re going to miss. I wonder, if I can hear everything going on out there, does that mean they can hear everything that's said in here? Maybe if I tell her, they’ll all hear me, too.

“..and I know it must be hard for you, after the death of your parents.”

“We didn’t know our parents.” I interject, the suffocating room with its morose occupant coming back into focus. From the window comes a flash of light, perhaps a meteor on its way to kiss the earth.

“Even if you don’t remember them, I’m sure you can still feel their absence. You are allowed to mourn what you never knew just as you are allowed to mourn your bro-” The air around me changes, growing heavy. I can feel my knees sink into my shins, into my ankles. My bones are ground to dust under this apocalyptic weight. I sit on my hands, their mass too leaden for my lap, and gently rock. I try to feel anything but the weight of gravity pulling me down. Her words pull me down. Just stop.

“The world is ending,” I whisper so quietly, I’m not sure if she’s heard me or not. “Everything is ending.”