April 31

Today is April 31. If you start on the 10th floor, the writing will make sense. The wall to the left of room 1001 is the beginning. Follow the numbers sequentially, and make sure you enter each unit. You won’t need a key card. Just in case you get confused, I’ve drawn a map of how everything flows near room 1020. I found two flashlights. You can have one. Look down. I don’t know if the battery works anymore. Maybe you don’t need the flashlight? Maybe the day has finally come? Telling you this early: don’t go into the basement.

April 31. Yes, you read that correctly.

April 31. I buried him in front of the hotel, before the sidewalk began. Scooped up soil with a spoon. It took me 12 hours. He’s wrapped in the comforter from my bed. If you’re looking for him, look for the top of a spoon sticking out of the ground.

April 31. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

April 31. I’ve never liked April. The rain, the squishy grass, air feeling like a wet blanket, having to carry a raincoat, walking in saturated shoes. A terrible month, really.

April 31. Lindsay Meyers DOB 09/10/1996

April 31. Rationing food. Here’s something I never believed to be true until today: you really can go a long time without eating. It’s painful, but doable once you get a few days past the curdling stomach. After that it’s euphoria (not the good kind). And water. Lots and lots of water.

April 31. Otto is barking again. He won’t stop looking at

April 31. In case you can’t find coffee grounds, a matcha enema will do the job.

April 31. Can’t see my hand in front of my face. I’m not going blind, to be clear. But I don’t remember what other people look like. Don’t know if my dog's hair has greyed like it’s supposed to. Don’t know if there’s a fresh wrinkle across my forehead or around my eyes. Don’t know if I can bring myself to look in one of the many mirrors—might be too dark to see anyway. Don’t know if what I’m eating is actual food. I haven’t died, so it must be food. Pretty sure I’m eating exclusively plants.

April 31. Found a dead person dead people

April 31. Progression of a mind during apocalypse: The first year, wishing for death. The second, assuming it’s guaranteed. Third, choosing survival for Otto’s sake. Four? Raising my right finger to the sky and shouting fuck you! Time is moving slower. Debating mixing chemicals to get a second hand high. Worried I’ll mix the wrong chemicals and die by accident.

April 31. I don’t know what happened. It was April 30. I crawled into my hotel bed and set the alarm. Otto slept at my feet. The next thing I remember is waking up in total darkness. I thought—here’s another reason to hate April. A terrible month, made more insufferable by a black sky. For future survivors: it’s never just a black sky. It’s a bad omen. People are going to die. You won’t know why. You’ll wish you were one of them.

April 31. Seasonal shifts don’t exist. But don’t worry, the rain is still an enduring motherfucker.

April 31. Fell down the stairs. Bumped into a couch. Ran into the corner of a high top table. Hit my head on a cabinet. I know there are ugly little swirls all over my body. If you do an autopsy, please, for the love of God, don’t put my cause of death as clumsiness.

April 31. Otto doesn’t like the basement.

April 31. What are the chances that I’m out of my mind or I intentionally put this out of order to fuck with you? Can you really trust anyone’s map?

April 31. Mom taught me I should always take credit for my work. So. I take credit for the writing on the wall, and the tables, and the marble bar on the first floor. I take credit for using too much toilet paper. For vomiting on the rooftop terrace. For eating more than my fair share of pillow mints. For my bad penmanship. For letting Otto sleep in every bed in this hotel. I will not give you my name. If you need it for a moody documentary, call me what you wish. Maybe Veronica? It’s badass and my mother would hate it. She thought it was a stripper’s name.

April 31. I’ve moved most of the bodies to the commercial refrigerator in the kitchen. I want to smell something other than rain and linens, but decaying flesh isn’t the right atmosphere for me.

April 31. Two flashlights!

April 31. I woke up to the bedroom door open, a shadow sitting in the corner of the room. It didn’t have a face. It might be a dream. It might be mania. A sprinkle of both?

April 31. Let’s pretend I’ve officially reached two thousand one hundred and ninety one days on my own. That’s six birthdays. Six anniversaries. Six Christmases and Easters and Valentines and Fourth of Julys. Six annual OBGYN checkups. Six work retreats. Six family reunions. Gone.

April 31. April 31 is the only appropriate name for this hell.

April 31. I don’t understand how vegans smile. Or voluntarily choose this life. Don’t trust the vegans.

April 31. Here’s a scary thought: here is everywhere. I’ve come to understand that separation, in some instances, is a very good thing. Give me light and dark, black and white, up and down, above and below.

April 31. I’ve stopped popping.

April 31. I’m sorry for the writing on the walls. If the light does return in full force and I’m dead, I apologize to the hotel in advance. I didn’t have paper. That’s on you guys. My sense of space and the shape of letters is going, so it likely won’t be a problem for too long. I’m hoping any of this is legible. It feels like this is a pen in my hand. It’s certainly not lipstick or eyeliner. That’s much softer.

April 31. Odds of survival with Otto: 11/10. Odds of survival without Otto: 0.

April 31. If you’re reading this, please write back. If you’re a monster from the basement, please leave the below spot blank. I need the writing space.

April 31.

April 31. There are 24 sleeping pills in the office behind the front desk. I could take them all. But then who would take care of Otto? I should stick it out long enough to see his ending. There’s another alternative: we go together. Does that make me a bad person? I think Otto might want that—doesn’t he?

April 31. It’s definitely not mania.

April 31. My suspicions that this is an exclusively vegan hotel are much stronger today. I’m living off of tofu. I know the taste, trust me. Wondering how I missed that detail when booking the hotel. Otto doesn’t seem to mind. Though his farts are getting pretty gnarly.

April 31. Feeling silly today. Might try my luck with the basement.

April 31. My cell phone doesn’t work. The dead people’s cell phones don’t work. I’ve watched enough horror apocalypse movies to know better. But I still had to give it a try.

April 31. Ever hated something so much that you give it an extra day? I have. Today, and everyday after, belongs to April 31. The April that has passed, the May that will never come. Take a photo of this. It’s the most poetic I’ve ever been. And I want credit.

April 31. Please stop coming into my room at night.

April 31. I went on a trip to Tennessee when I was 13. My parents thought it would be a good idea to explore a deep cave. It’s one of the few caves in the world where total darkness is possible. Where you can’t see your hand in front of your face. In that cave, I learned humans can’t persist in darkness. Our eyes would burn out searching for light. It might be true. Call me the first official experiment. Missing mom and dad and Kevin right now. Wonder if they're gone or wandering like me.

April 31. I’m thinner than I’ve ever been and no one’s here to witness it.

April 31. I used to be afraid of the dark. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m just pissed. Pissed about being pissed.

April 31. Theory one: this is a reset. Nature hates us and said our time was up. Fair. Theory two: bad men with access to big buttons made a booboo. Not surprising. Theory three: it’s all a dream. Ready to wake up now.

April 31. Dogs can be taught to pee in bathtubs. And showers.

April 31. Please tell the scientists to study why the rain is still here. I’m annoyed, but I’m also intrigued. I think they would be, too.

April 31. Saw wet footprints today. Took a few shoes off of the dead men in the refrigerator to measure the print. It’s a size 9. Wide. The toes might be fused together. They led into the basement of the hotel.

April 31. Poops are back.

April 31. I tried calling out to people, but all I hear is Otto’s whimper. He’s a Border Collie. Please erect a statue in his honor. Tell people he was a beautiful nuisance and the light of my life. That he was loyal to the end.

April 31. The bodies in the fridge are gone.

April 31. I open my window everyday now. I’m eager to listen to the strike of droplets into Otto’s makeshift water bowl. It’s the only time I can clearly picture the world as it was: the mixing of purple and blue in the sky, subtle grey tones falling over the city. People in beige trench coats and kids in oversized yellow rainboots. The sound of splashing in muddy street waters. And when the rain subsides, the world in my head evaporates, plunging me back into darkness. (take a picture of this, too)

April 31. Went outside. It’s very cold. Humid. Too dark to travel far from the safety of the hotel. But I think Otto got to pee on a bush.

April 31. I find myself thinking about chocolate donuts for an unreasonable amount of time.

April 31. Won’t be stepping outside for a while. Not after that.

April 31. I tried to start a fire using tissue paper and friction. It sparked for three seconds, then died. Oxygen—in short supply?

April 31. Drinking rain water is a gamble with death. It’s delicious going down, but I don’t have a way to sanitize it. I’ve swallowed a crumpled leaf or two. Sometimes it tastes like metal. It doesn’t seem to bother Otto. I’m a little jealous he doesn't get the rain shits. He’s got a stomach of steel.

April 31. Opened the door to the basement. They were standing there, facing the descent of the steps, like statues. Eyes closed. Bodies covered in a layer of sparkly ice. Closed the door to the basement. Won’t be going back.

April 31. Dragged 33 comforters, 25 pillows, and 1 mattress into my room. Piled them together and climbed into the middle, sinking into the mattress. I closed my eyes, imagining a mountain of white rising above me. I drifted, peaceful. For a moment, I saw color. Then Otto pushed through my grave-like fort and licked my nose.