Last Day

Last Day


This is our last day on Earth. You know why, you do, so I can't be bothered to talk about that.


What others are doing is looting, raping, killing others and themselves, and mourning. Fueled by alcohol, drugs and ice cream. Why not? Except the looting. That one I don't understand.


What I am doing is reading. The Phantom Tollbooth, if you must know. It's a comfort book for me. Hiding in my basement, since the looting has entered my house and even my basement, but I flip off the kindle and wait until the looter either takes what he wants or leaves disappointed since my wine has already been removed or, oddly, smashed.


I don't believe in God, so I am not preparing for an afterlife.


Generally, when I tried to read lately, my eyes follow the words and pages, but my brain spun too much to absorb anything, so I had to page back to where something clicked last, often realizing that I was spending more time paging back than paging forward.


But today, now, our Last Day, I am able to concentrate.


I'm at my favorite part. One of my favorite parts, anyway. There are many. This one is the part with Alec, the boy who grows downwards so he always maintains the same point of view from birth to death. I imagine when he shrinks as he gets older, as my Mom and mother-in-law did quite dramatically, his feet will, once again, leave the ground. At this point in the story, in Alec's life, he is still not fully grown, so his feet hover above the Earth.


Lots to think about here, but I continue reading. The book is not nearly over and we have Rhyme and Reason to rescue still. Maybe, for me, for the twentieth time.


I hear someone coming down the stairs, quietly. I flip off the kindle, eliminating even its soft glow as a risk.


When she turns the corner, I see she is afraid. I see she is a teenage girl, maybe not even quite a teenager, holding a pen light that casts a thin line toward the stairs, but reflects a soft glow around her and the stairway.


Fear is a fair emotion today, I expect. But, despite my atheism, I feel none. I am excited, for the twentieth time, for Milo and Tock, but, for me, I actually feel nothing. For me and all of humanity. Nothing.


The girl reaches the basement floor and scans the room. The light passes by my hiding place, higher than where the side of my face can be clocked. The rest of my body is hidden behind packing supplies and our annual holiday decorations, none of which will ever get used again.


To my surprise, she walks right towards me. I am still not afraid, though would greatly prefer not to be subjected to pain on my last day, the Last Day, which is why I hid. How did she know I was here?


She answers, a more gravelly voice than I expected, yet still a whisper, as if she had read my mind. "Jake said you'd be down here."


I don't know Jake.


She continues, "He came for your wine earlier today. But don't worry, he told no one else that he saw you here."


The girl softly walks over to me, moves a few boxes forward. An ornament, somehow pops up out of one of the boxes and rolls slowly across the top of the box and stops, on the lip. We watch it without moving, hoping it would not hit the floor, shatter and, perhaps, be heard by someone outside who comes down to investigate. But it hangs on the lip, maybe caught by its hook.

This moment unites us.


"I want to be safe," she says in her gravely whisper. She moves a few more boxes very gingerly, between her and the stairs. When she finished, she is completely hidden from view.


"I'm reading," I respond softly.


She replies, "I won't bother you." She leans against me, her head against my neck, sighs slowly, more blowing out air than anything emotional.


We sit there for a few minutes, maybe only seconds, before I flip on the kindle and begin reading again.


The girl, who I only know as Jake's friend, says nothing. She doesn't ask what I am reading. Nor does she ask me to read aloud. But I find myself doing so anyway.


After a few pages, I ask, "Do you want me to start again at the beginning?"


I can feel her shake her head very slightly against my neck. "No," she says.


"Have you read this book before," I ask.


Another gentle shake of her head against my neck. Her hair is rough, so it's also a light scratching.


"It's no bother," I add. "I've read this-"


She shakes her head, somewhat more strongly this time. "No, please just continue," she says. Then adds, "It's better this way."


These will be the last words she ever speaks and, besides the sound of my own voice as I recount the rescue of the two princesses from the demons, which I won't get to finish, the last words I will ever hear.


END.