What's Left After the Last Hurrah

(There is only mention of suicidal ideation, no actual content. Much talk of death)

There had never been a storm like this one. Not in this region, not in this anywhere.

The roads were more than invisible. The outside beyond the windshield looked like a hole had been cut out of the world. All beyond the car was trapped in a world of static and nothingness, you wouldn’t have been too shocked to learn you were the last person in the world.

Aching fingers, wired adrenaline, full body shakes and a twitch in your left eye-- you didn’t know how much more you could take. A cramp had started in your leg, along with an unbearable pounding in your head.

Fight or flight comes when you have no other options. On the eleventh hour when the bases are loaded and your soul has no more left to give, but it’s not designed to last. What happens when the burst of energy comes, but you still can’t see the finish line? What’s left after the last hurrah?

You didn’t know if you could pry your fingers off the steering wheel to pull over, even if you wanted to. You were so close. Were you still moving? It was hard to tell.

It felt like an out-of-body experience, you thought, if the feeling were inverted. Like you felt so stuck in your own physical form that the outside shrunk to a vacuum tight seal around you, crushing the last of the air from your lungs.

Why didn’t you pack your inhaler? You always pack your inhaler for overnight trips, even though you haven’t used it since you were a kid; a part of your dad’s wisdom that never truly let you go.

You can’t die here. Other people have died young, you won’t though. That’d be crazy. It couldn’t happen to you, you have plans. You have dates and shows and lessons and meetings and visits and oh god, you really don’t want to die, do you?

You’ve never let your self think about it before, and why would you, but it’s true. You don’t want to die. Some hidden unpleasant suicidal ideation would be great to uncover right now. To discover that deep deep down you really did want to die all along. Surely that would be the triumphant and abrupt end to a life lived fine.

There’s a stupid cat you have to live for, at the very least. A mangy thing you’d picked up from the shelter about a month ago. After doomscrolling through animal rescue content for hours on end, you’d decided that you were really going to do it. You were gonna finally do something instead of saying you were going to. You were going to drive your dumb old car to the local SPCA and adopt the ugliest, sickest, grossest cat you could. How honorable of me, you thought. I am a good person.

It turns out no one takes those cats for a reason. You’d lost over two grand in vet visits, had to buy two new rugs, and spent countless nights awake, trying to get your 16-year-old cat to eat the stupid wet food you’d spent days researching.

You know they take those back, your friend had said. It’s okay, you tried. You don’t have to keep killing yourself with this cat.

No, you said. No I love this cat. I am going to fight for it. Even if it isn’t easy. Especially if it isn’t easy, because every creature deserves a chance to live a good life. Okay, she said. Did you name it yet?

You hadn’t. No name fit. So you kept calling it cat, and it seemed to respond to that. Maybe a blink of recognition here or there. You hated the cat. You hated your friend, too. And maybe you hated yourself a little, unfortunately, not enough to accept your crushing and isolating death.

A red light broke through the wall of white, faint and obscure. You recognized it as the turn before your apartment. Something small in your chest, like the itch in your throat that forces out a cough-- hope.

Muscle memory is a beautiful thing. Your stiff fingers turn the wheel the way they always do, the way that the sun always rises and your heart always beats. How dramatic you were being. Here you are, safe and sound.

The car door takes a few shoves from your shoulder to release the tension that’s built up inside over the course of the drive. Like an airlock on a spaceship, the cold, cold air floods over your body and finds its way to your bones in seconds. But doesn’t it feel good to be a part of the world again? To breathe new air and feel the snow beneath you? Or does it just feel cold?

You’ve always been sensitive to temperature. The stale warmth of your apartment just translates to overheating in your layers. You’re slipping as the snow melts off your shoes, your nose is running, the feeling is starting to return completely to your limbs and the pins-and-needles is hitting you full force. You can hear thumping somewhere deeper in your apartment: the cat. It’s hard to remember to be thankful.

Your coat won’t come off. Your sweater is itchy on your neck. Your eyes are running, crying, maybe. You stumble over your boot, grabbing onto a ledge. The drawer catches your eye, propped open slightly. You must’ve left it in your hurry to leave, its shape is malformed and mangled, covered in tooth marks with plastic chipped away. Your inhaler.

There’s a puddle of something foul smelling on the new carpet. Your thumb runs over the indents of your pet’s teeth on the inhaler. It’s not difficult to imagine. The cat, alone in the house. The storm started to pick up, the wind started whistling through the old creaky windows, and no sign of you. Something that smells like you in a small, warm drawer. Safety.

“Cat?” you call. A beat of silence, then the small patter of feet approaching you.

In the dim light, it’s harder to notice the limp and the matted fur. The creature looks up at you and meows softly before turning towards its food bowl.

Maybe this is why people get pets, you think. Maybe it’s nice to have something to prove your existence every now and again. To remember you take up space. To have something to clean up after that isn’t yourself.

This thing needs you. More than you need it? Hard to say.

Because you don’t hate cat. Not really. You’re not quite sure if you have the energy to muster hatred for anything anymore.

You try to remember if you locked your car. Did you even turn it off? Maybe it’s still out there, sliding down the street in the chaos of the storm. A phantom version of you inside, waiting for an end that will never come. Maybe. You smile.