Woman Number Twenty-Three

I had imagined and even planned my death hundreds of times in the last seven years and yet, knowing it would happen in just a few hours was perhaps the strangest combination of emotions I had ever experienced.

Taking care of pointless tasks, I emptied the trash and made the bed, more out of routine than necessity, and hummed that stupid song John always sang to quiet Theo in those early years. I rearranged the items on the table for the third time and then laughed at myself because the odds of anyone actually finding them were about as good as mine were at surviving here another day.

It had been seven exhausting years since I last heard a voice other than my own. According to lines I etched in the wall next to my bed, 2,556 days had passed since my husband John and two-year-old son Theo were ripped from my arms, leaving me to fight alone and survive in a world that no longer resembled anything close to humane civilization.

Seven years of avoiding the creature that seemed to know exactly where you were and what you were thinking. Seven years of hiding, of terror, of surviving with shreds of hope for what? To find others? To escape? Seven years of thinking about how to die on my terms and somehow not dishonor the last words I said to John -- I’ll survive for us.

Thoughts of seeing Theo for the last time were never far and caused an ache deep inside of me that was unlike any pain I had ever felt before. It didn’t hurt like when you stub your toe on the end of the bed in the middle of the night. No. It hurt from the inside out. It was like swimming upstream against the current with no end in sight, while also holding a baby above the water, knowing if you stopped trying for even a second, you’d both disappear forever. The only way to make it stop was to crawl into bed, close my eyes, and hope for sleep to come. And for a few blissful moments each morning, I’d forget for a moment that it was time to swim again.

To make matters worse, every year I had to decide whether to accept the mysterious invitation that appeared outside my door and surrender, essentially guaranteeing my death, or keep fighting, risking a much more savage death at the hands of the creature I affectionately named Spikes based on the quick, yet terrifying glance I had of him years earlier.

And now, on the seventh anniversary of the worst day of my life, I had chosen to surrender; to do the unthinkable; to willingly accept the invitation and end this terrible nightmare.

According to the instructions in the invitation, I had just under five hours to finish preparing. Satisfied with the letter I wrote to the unlucky person who would stumble into this hellhole I came to politely refer to as a cabin, I folded the paper and dropped it inside the yellow envelope. I had no idea if my account of the last seven years would ever reach another living soul. If not, I knew the words had done the work of keeping me company, and letting them die with me was the least of my worries. I pressed the heart-shaped locket to my lips and held it there for a moment. Eyes closed, I could still picture the other half around his neck but I refused to allow myself to go there. I started to drop the locket in with the letter but changed my mind at the last second and shoved it in my pocket instead.

I finished packing my bag, amused that one was required to bring a change of clothes and a toothbrush to their own end-of-life ceremony. The invitations were brief and contained about as much detail as you might expect a teenage boy to give you about his evening plans with a girlfriend.

Each envelope arrived in the same way, words written in thick, blue block letters.

SURRENDER CEREMONY INVITATION FOR NORA SCOTT

The same instructions were always enclosed inside. Where to go. What time to arrive. What to bring. No more. No less.

It took me three years to figure out the invitations arrived on the same day each year - the anniversary of John and Theo’s death. There were never more than two options. Either try to survive until the world recovered but risk dying a brutal death at the hands of Spikes or willingly die peacefully at the surrender ceremony.

The first few years had been different than the last one. Back then, I had the will to live and fight. I spent weeks devising a plan to resist whatever the hell that monster was. I had scientific calculations that would have made my academic husband eat every word he had uttered about my miserable math skills. That version of Nora would be ashamed to see me now - resigned to simply giving up.

At 4:45, I grabbed the backpack, paused at the door, and headed out.

Minutes later, I stood just outside of view, a mere 50 yards from the hanger. Although I knew there was no right way to feel at the end of your life, I was certain whatever I was feeling was wrong. As I approached the entrance, the sounds from inside floated gently in my direction and a chill ran through my body making me feel like I had stepped into a walk-in freezer.

There was no door knocker, only a small button to the left of the door which I assumed I was supposed to push to announce my arrival. I slowly raised my hand to push the button but as my finger pressed the white circle, I glimpsed a hint of movement to my left along the path I had just walked. My eyes held the motionless figure for what felt like an eternity.

It was a boy, about four feet tall, dressed in an odd combination of clothes, and holding something in his outstretched hand as if he was trying to show it to me. I couldn’t see the object clearly but I could tell that it was small enough to fit in his hand. Expecting the door to open any second, a strange sensation pulled me toward the boy. Not in a supernatural, ghosty kind of way but like an invisible string was tied around my waist and someone was pulling me toward him.

Still staring silently at the boy, the clouds opened up as if they were going to swallow me whole and the sun rays hit the tiny object. I heard myself gasp as if I was a bystander watching it all unfold in slow motion.

The other half of the locket. Theo.

It can’t be Theo.

Theo is dead.

My heart raced at the anticipation of the door opening and yet I couldn’t tear my eyes away, his eyes practically begging me to run to him. From behind the door, I heard footsteps and panic welled up within my throat, bile threatening to escape.

Theo was alive and I had just surrendered myself to die. My son, my beautiful son was alive and it was too late.

The door swung open as hot tears ran down my face and anguish as deep as the ocean consumed me. The only time I had felt this type of pain was the day John and Theo were ripped from my arms by Spikes and this was worse. This time I had chosen to abandon my son and didn’t deserve to be his mother.

Snapping back to reality, thoughts raced through my head, wondering if he was in danger and needed my help. While the two men talked to each other, buying me another few precious seconds, I stole a final glance at Theo. I realized it would be the last time our eyes would meet in this lifetime, and the weight of this revelation caused my knees to buckle. I felt myself falling, unwilling to catch myself, acknowledging that I deserved whatever pain was waiting for me on the other side.

The next time I opened my eyes, I was more confused than scared. The room wasn’t what I expected at all if one could even predict what was inside a building where you choose to end your own life in exchange for escaping a daily terror and brutal demise.

For hours, I waited for someone to take me to my death. Waited for the relief of nothingness to wash over me and leave this terrible, tragic life behind. I desperately wanted to finally let go of the what-if and the if-only and the endless stream of dark thoughts that had danced in the quiet moments over the last several years, tormenting me with their visions of second chances and sliding door moments. I wanted to know that this place, this life was exactly where I was always meant to be and that every mistake, every choice, every wrong turn would never have led me anywhere else but right where I was.

Jolted awake by the gush of air that came with the door opening, I sat up so quickly I thought I might pass out. I had dozed off, dreaming of that fall day where John, Theo, and I had raked the leaves in the backyard, pushing them into a giant pile, and then taken turns jumping in. The sound of Theo’s giggles would have made even the Queen’s guards smile and was an image that seared into my mind, promising to come back again and again like a tide that never failed to show.

The woman standing at the door was about my size and looked strangely calm. She had a friendly face and looked more cautious than callous. Instinctively, I scooted back, away from her as she approached me.

They say your life flashes before you right before you die but I saw no flashes. I was ready. My body refused to fight another day, to endure the endless torture of not knowing when I would die or worse, how. At least here, I knew my death would be quick. I resolved to believe that Theo appearing to me had been a hallucination designed not to scare me but to comfort me. Perhaps he too had been here at some point and chosen this path.

Years later, I would remember that moment with her, approaching me, as the exact moment I knew I had been terribly wrong about everything. Her kind smile as she sat on the edge of my bed and picked up my hand would be the first of thousands of gestures we would offer each other in times of trial, heartbreak, and resilience.

Only minutes later, I learned that what had once been known as a surrender ceremony, created by savage survivors as a form of entertainment, had been taken over by a group of women who wanted to end the barbaric ceremony. They had to keep the idea quiet in fear of the wrong people discovering their new agenda and continue sending the invitations, hoping people would come willingly. With each new person that surrendered, the group grew in resources, power, and determination.

The woman, my new friend Jonie, and I went on to form the secret, revolutionary organization called The Twenty Three and found the will to not only survive but to lead an unlikely group of women to rebuild a new world.

I was woman number twenty-three.