Schism

I am looking down the road and there is nothing at the end. Not ‘nothing’ as in ‘empty’ or a ‘lack of things,’ but literally a void. The road itself is lovely–there's well-kept grass and foliage on either side and it is theoretically drivable (if anyone still drove). But about a hundred feet out there's just…shadow. My brain tries to make sense of it, but it can't.

There's no making sense out of nothing.

No one knows when the schism happened. Our minds are as pocketed with holes as our world is now. We all maintain this vague sense of loss–we're all sure we lost something or someone, but we don't know what or who or how much. Maybe we're all in this collective state of ongoing shock; a protective amnesia shielding us from whatever horror happened. I spend a lot of time wondering. We probably all do, but we don't talk about it anymore. It hurts too much. The worst part is, we don't even know why it hurts.

We manage. I have no idea what I did in the before-times. Maybe I worked in an office, maybe I was a construction worker.

Maybe I was a parent.

But now, I move. I find food and move it to survivor camps. I find supplies and get them to people who need them. I’d like to think I’m being helpful. Maybe I was in customer service in the past, or I could’ve worked in a hospital. Who knows? I’d like to think I’m moving things forward, assisting in the effort to rebuild.

The truth is, I have to keep moving.

If I don’t, I’m afraid the nothing will swallow me as well. I don’t know if I had anyone before. I could’ve had a family, or a group of friends. I certainly don’t have anyone now.

Some people stayed together, either out of habit or in an attempt to increase the odds of survivability. Humans have always traveled in packs, after all. That’s how we built society, right? We stayed together and put down roots and bred and things grew out of all that.

I turn away from the road without an end and my little red wagon creaks behind me. It’s loaded with stuff I found at a grocery store I passed on my way to stare into the shadows once again. So many people are afraid to get this close to the shadows, but I’m not. What can they do to me now? They may have already taken everything from me, and I don’t even know it. One of the wagon wheels squeaks. It’s always squeaked, but that’s okay. It’s like an endearingly-whiny companion to me at this point–especially when it’s weighed down with cans and bandages and bags as it is now.

The store had been blessedly devoid of people. Sometimes, there were people living amongst the groceries–eyes big and sad, hungry despite being surrounded by food. They usually let me take things, anyway. The shelves always restocked on their own, supplied by whatever mysterious forces were keeping the lights on and the water running despite half the city being disappeared.

I stop in my tracks and turn to my right. There’s a little park here, but it feels wrong. It’s just a space full of too-green grass. I get the vague sense that it wasn’t just grass before. There might’ve been a house here, or there could have at least been a playground. Now it’s just the grass, and a feeling of foreboding, and strange, broken rocks that float on their own. I don’t think gravity worked the same way before. I’m pretty sure things stayed put on the ground. Now, pieces hover strangely. I notice it more when I’m closer to the void. I wonder if other people notice. They certainly don’t talk about it–at least, not to me.

People don’t talk much to me in general.

Sure, they always thank me for the supplies. They come out from their shelters to meet me when they hear my squeaky wagon. But they don’t chat for much longer than a few moments of pleasantries. I can hear them speak in hushed voices as I travel on to the next encampment. I suppose I am strange, even in this strange land. I keep to myself, I wander around looking for anything that might be of use. I find things every time. I go too close to the void. I guess they might be afraid of me. They think I’ve been affected, or infected. I don’t blame them.

Sometimes, I’m afraid of me, too.

(Part II)