The Day I Met the Sun

Before I met her, I could barely remember the last time I had seen the sun.

Time passed as white noise.

My footsteps.

My silence.

The buzzing of my thoughts.

The sink.

“Drip, drip”.

If I tried to scream,

my throat was glued together.

Fear is a sticky little thing, isn’t it? It clings to you no matter how you shake it. It swallows you, drowns your senses, meshes itself into that gap between your lungs, spinning its web and choking you when you lie to sleep at night.

It follows me in my dreams.

I lived my life in fear until she took almost all of it with her.

Almost?

See, I still have one fear left… or rather desire. It all comes from the same place.

I desire that when this is over, you or someone else will find something in reading this. I don’t care what it is you find. I’m only terrified of being forgotten. That’s all I ask…

Please, don’t forget me.

My name is Isabella. I think I’m older than 15. I may die once I leave this basement.

Fifteen is the last birthday I remember. So much time has gone by, I’m not sure how old I am. The quinceañera, the bursting candles, spinning dances, and chocolate cream cake are from another world now. The past year was filled by empty spaces, spirits, caught in the crossing between this plane and the next. There’s only flashes in between.

The little sparks of light from whenever you came back.

You did come back for me, Dad, always.

You brought whatever food you could scrounge up. You brought lost trinkets, books, clothes, anything that could fit under the bolted basement door. You told me stories about the world above, recounted the “old days” before the storm. We laughed as our minds danced through the recollections, just the way you danced with me on my birthday. You were far from perfect but you always made me feel safe.

How I miss the days before.

It wasn’t the kind of storm everyone conjures up in their imagination. When we ran outside for a peek, the skies were brighter than any dream. It was a symphony of colors that tore through space and pulsed blue, green, red, magenta, breathed and twirled as if they were alive.

I thought it was music and called it an orchestra. You called it a magnetic storm. A superflare. A piece of the sun ejected into our magnetic field, a thousand times greater than any explosion in history. Imagine that.

How could something so bright and beautiful be so violent?

The first to fall was the phone service, then the internet, radio, lights, and all the comforts we took for granted. Everything was still.

Then the fires raged.

A smell of smoke and ash filled the skies. Telephone lines caught aflame and melted, sending sparks flying. Planes fell from the skies. Explosions rang as the gas stations, warehouses, movie theaters, news stations, and other wired hubs for humanity burned to the ground.

You rushed to power off everything in the house, and in our neighborhood, only ours remained uncharred.

Still, you never breathed a sigh of relief.

You knew the aftermath would be far worse. Panic, greed, derangement, fear, and all the fickle dominoes of human emotion would fall to chaos.

That day, society was plunged into a dark age. Nations collapsed along with every body of law. It was a free-for-all. Every tribe fit to conquer for itself.

You did all you could, given the circumstances. You barricaded me in the only place you were sure I was safe, erecting locks, bolts, furniture, and anything else you could put between me and the world. You kept me company. You promised, over and over, that this would end soon. Promises emptier than the spaces between your visits.

Even when I was lonely, you reached a hand into the gap you carved under the door and stretched your fingers out to me. When you pulled away, I thought, if only my spirit could unlatch from this body and drift upwards, I could meet you where you are.

The last gift you gave me was some papers, pens, and this locket. I recognized it in an instant. Silver and heart shaped, containing the only picture of the woman you loved. My mother.

Her brown eyes crinkled in a smile. Her skin: tan, smooth, and unmarked by age. Her high and proud cheekbones. The tiny dimples around her mouth. She passed before I really got to know her, but you carried her around 'til the end.

The day you gave me that locket was the last I would ever hear your voice.

The day I imagined you and I were both dead.

You came back, heaving, strained to move the heavy bookcase, and unbolted the door that held me in. I felt the pain, the grit and weakness in your breath. You had never sounded weak before.

Freeing me had been your death march, and I myself would die a caged bird. Or so I thought.

You collapsed in a heap and I asked you what happened, though I already knew the answer.

You were hurt, or robbed, or maimed.

God knows.

You didn't reply.

You never would again.

I had to stifle the screams. You were dead, Dad, and I just wanted to go with you.

Please, don’t think I was not grateful. You gave your last breath for me, and here I was, planning to end it all. I did everything you asked of me. I stayed put. I stayed consigned to this awful crypt. I could have left long ago, barreled my way through with the axe you left until I freed myself from the splinters. I could have gone outside and caught the sun on my skin, breathed the moving air, and ran, mindless, like an animal of pure instinct. I could have been captured out there. Or I could have stayed in this house and rotted alongside you. I’d have done it then… if only see you again.

But now, Dad, I’m living for her too.

I heard some noises above the basement a few nights ago, some time after you died. The wind was singing through the house, with the birds and all the little creatures whistling as they made their den inside. No rustle or sound stood out quite like hers.

I opened the door for the first time and stepped over your body.

I was hungry. I was delirious. I had nearly run out of water, and left myself for dead. I was ready to make whatever I found into my next meal.

But she... she was just a little kitten, bright and orange, with barely a scrap of flesh or fat on her bones. The creature smelled of dampness and decay, as did everything here, and still, there was something in her eyes that told me she had the spark of life in her.

She burned brighter than anything I’d ever seen, brighter than even the greatest solar flare.

I named her Marisol, after Mom. Tacky, I know. But for the last few days she became my guiding light, just as Mom guided you to the very end. At my worst, I imagined she was the horseman Famine coming for me on her red chariot. I know when you’re passing, you’re supposed to see a light at the end of the tunnel, and when you follow it, you die and are born again.

Instead, the light gave me life.

I fed her the last droplets of water I had, and we kept each other warm that night. As for today… I leave you behind.

With her, I carry my strength and with your locket, I carry your memories. As for you, I place this letter in your palm, so that you remember me wherever you’ve gone.

Love,

Isabella