My Favorite Game

Today is April 31.

Never in my life did I think this day would actually come.

I have a memory from when I was younger, of a beautiful Spring day. Yet, instead of playing under the bright sky, the sun warming my skin, I was staring at the blue bookshelf in my room. Books were shoved haphazardly next to all of the trinkets I had collected over the years, items spilling onto the floor. It was so bad that most of my area rug was covered in the mess, which grew more dusty with each passing day. The shelf, and the rest of my room, so badly needed to be organized, though I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But neither could I relax knowing this chore was waiting for me, its shadow looming over everything I did.

Desperate to escape the guilt, I gave myself a deadline. On April 31, I’d get it done. And with that promise, the shadow cast over me finally receded, scared away by an end in sight.

As I grew up, so did my use of this game. Organizing my childhood bedroom morphed into finally dropping off that bag of clothes to the thrift store on September 31, and at last cleaning out the trunk of my car this February 29 (although that date gave me trouble every few years).

How I wish my tasks were still so insignificant.

Now, my chores consisted of manual labor, and hours of it. My game was no longer viable, my tasks crucial for survival. I’d be breathing heavy, and stop to wipe the sweat from my brow, leaving a streak of dirt across my forehead. I would stare up at the orange haze, wondering how long we could live like this. Wondering how long I had left.

My plan started as a tiny thought I didn’t give much voice to. It was just something my mind fabricated to bring me out of my suffering, to try and make my new reality a little more bearable. But this too grew a shadow. And its whispering became louder, until it was shouting in my head.

I let myself play the game again then, coaxing my mind into the trap. But soon enough, this deadline was no longer hypothetical.

So for the past month, I had been volunteering for first watch of the night. And to the naked eye, last night’s watch started off the same as the others. The members of the compound trudged up to the sleeping quarters after another long day, unlacing their boots and leaving them in a neat line against the siding before slipping inside. Some raised a hand in greeting as they passed, which I returned with a reserved nod. But inside, my heart pounded with anticipation.

When my shift was up, I laid in my cot, resting my eyes but not my ears. For the next few hours, I was still, listening to the chests around me rise and fall. I didn’t dare doze off and miss my only opportunity. After an eternity, I heard the second watchman’s feet pad to his cot on the far side of the room, his footsteps replaced by the third watchman’s familiar tread toward the outside.

My heart skipped a beat. It was almost time.

I lay on my back, silently counting to make sure enough time had passed to let the guard fall asleep before I opened my eyes. I blinked, letting them adjust to the dark of the room. I moved my arm to hang off the cot, hand feeling for the floor. I found what I was searching for before long: a rucksack still in its place beneath me where I had stashed it the night before.

My eyes squeezed shut once more, trying to control my racing heart. It was now or never.

I dressed silently before making my bed and organizing my few possessions as I did every day. If anyone happened to notice I was gone in the morning, it would just look like I had morning duty at the mess hall.

Tiptoeing to the door, I cast one last glance behind me, knowing I would never see these faces again. It was nice for my last view of these people to be like this, fast asleep, seemingly without a care in the world. I could pretend they were always this at peace.

Outside, the third watch was leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. I watched the smoke drift up toward the dark sky, letting her savor what I guessed to be one of her last. Things had always been scarce here, but as our time time in this shelter became more permanent, stock was quickly disappearing. I wondered how she would stay awake once she had no more.

“So,” she started, ashing her cigarette before bringing it up again and pausing with it in between her fingers. “I guess this is it.”

I felt a pang in my heart. The two of us had never gotten along growing up, but six months ago, her face was the only survivor’s that I had recognized. She’d become all that I had. And after this, we had little chance of meeting again.

“I guess so,” I said, standing up from where I was tying my boots. I stared down, using a toe to draw circles in the dirt. I swallowed, knowing this was one hard thing I couldn’t avoid. “Thanks for everything.”

“Get out of here already,” she rolled her eyes. She was never one for sharing feelings. But when she looked away, I saw a tear fall down her cheek and create a clean spot on her t-shirt.

I took a deep breath, and started down the road, not daring to look back. My hands were shaking, my chest tight, like my heart couldn’t keep the blood pumping fast enough.

This wasn’t my first choice, but I knew my other options were slim to none, unless I wanted to spend the rest of my life at this compound barely scraping by. Unless I wanted to keep trying to stay safe in a dangerous world, waiting to meet an inevitable untimely death.

All those years ago, I learned I could deceive my own mind. I learned that I could trick myself into never doing what I was putting off. But that bag of old clothes had long disintegrated, and I no longer had a car at all, let alone one that I needed to clean out.

This was the only task to complete.

Today is April 31. And it is the day I leave in search of a cure.