The Unthinkable

Just another boring day. It seems like the past week has been the inevitable wake up, go to work, come home, turn on the television while I eat my frozen dinner, and get on the computer. After I watch a few TikTok videos, I go to bed. There’s gotta be more to life than this. But to get through the next shower, the next traffic light, the next boring meeting and the next time I have to select one out of 300 frozen meals, someday I may come to appreciate my life. At least that’s what I used to say.

Right now, I’m tucked away from society in a private little room under my stairway through a door in the panel that is a little obscure unless you look for it closely. Although I’m not sure of the time, it feels like it’s been a few days, at least. The reason I don’t know is because I haven’t been able to charge my watch. Who thought I would ever long for a watch that I needed to wind?

“Those were the good old days,” they used to say. Of course, the younger generation would laugh because they really had no idea what the “good old days” actually entailed.

In the good old days, technology was not nearly as fast as it is, meaning that people relied on each other to get information and to express themselves before having AI to tell them how to do it. And when there was miscommunication, there’d always be a pause, a puzzled look, and then a reiteration to get the point across. This led to learning. Now that’s an archaic idea. Then again, why learn when you can have a machine do everything for you?

Suddenly, the walls shake on top of the trembling floor beneath my crossed over legs. The shaking quakes through my ass, up my spine, and into my rattling teeth. While I do have a light plugged in to illuminate the room, my eyesight is limited to a 4 x 6 length room. And that last explosion triggered immense movement. A long and jagged crack spread down the wall in front of me almost to the floor.

A scuffle outside the door alerts me that someone or something is alive besides me. This is great, because until now, the only noise I’ve heard is the dropping of bombs and people screaming. Lately though, it’s just bombs. The screaming stopped a while ago.

I think about all the people I’ve known in my life and even the ones I’ve dated, like Tracy. A little overweight, but a genuinely good person. When I broke it off, I quit returning texts and basically disappeared. I never got married. Maybe that one time that Tracy jokingly brought it up it scared me. I could be in here right now with my spouse, holding my hand looking into my eyes and telling me everything is gonna be okay. I could just lay in Tracy’s arms until it’s over. But I’m not with anyone else. I am alone.

The noise outside my door grows louder and more desperate as it claws at the door. Unspeaking. A foreigner or deaf-mute? Perhaps someone blind who has so much dust in their throat they cannot speak. The scratching becomes more insistent with a weight to it now, perhaps throwing their body against the door as well. How do they know about the door? And how do they know I’m even in here, much less alive?

I clasp my hands over my ears, picturing a dying person on the other side of the door, crippled and bleeding. Perhaps it’s a child. Still, I can’t let them in and risk exposing myself. What good could I do anyway? I’ve no food and certainly no medical supplies. The only thing that could happen is that they would discover they were correct in detecting me. I just needed to wait. What am I waiting for?

When it all ends, I can go back to my pesky alarm going off in the morning, and this time, I wouldn’t hit the snooze button. I might ride my bike to work, as the office is only about two miles away, instead of adding to the street congestion with my car. Maybe I’d leave earlier and stop at the quaint little coffee shop on the corner that a mother and her daughter run. Polka dots and Plaid is what it's called. I find myself smiling as I wonder where that gawdawful title originated. Perhaps a co-worker or friend would meet me. We could make it “a thing.”

Then my smile disappears as I wonder if the shop has been condensed to a pile of rubble with both women inside. One was hovering over a table and delivering a refill, while the other was removing a cookie sheet from the oven of freshly baked croissants. But not anymore.

Then I wonder if there are any buildings left at all. There must be. My stairway can’t possibly be the only thing left erect in the city. That would definitely be a Twilight Zone moment. I wonder how many others there are still alive. I wonder how long this will go on, or if the last bomb has been dropped. Maybe it’s over now. How can I know?

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“Go away!” I cry out before I realize it’s even me yelling.

The noise stops.

Whoever it is has just confirmed my presence. They know they aren’t alone. Maybe that’s the reason Fate has brought us together. Maybe there is a way we can help each other and I haven’t figured it out yet.

The scratching begins again, desperate and unrelenting, insisting I cave in and open the door.

This time when my body responds, it isn’t an unconscious act. I have to make my hand lift to the doorknob and wrap around it.

The scratching ceases, waiting. Waiting for me to reveal myself.

A loud blast shakes the small room! Dust and debris shake loose from above me, covering me in flakes of paint. My hand withdraws from the handle and clenches with its twin against my chest.

I wait. The scratching needs to happen this time before I can open the door. I cannot risk giving myself away for nothing.

I listen.

Silence.

The sound of nothing.

No shower. No cars. No office building. No food. And no one to talk to.

It’s unthinkable.