Wasting Away (15 page)

“It
hurts to think that I didn’t mean enough to her to get her to stay. It’s painful
to think that she would have rather ended her life than to be stuck with me.”

“If
that was the case and she
was
trying to kill herself, I’m sure you were
the last thing on her mind. People who commit suicide have tunnel vision. They
only see in a straight line. They see what began their depression and they see
death as a remedy.”

“Whatever
it was, Constance didn’t die. She fled. She left me there alone.”

“And
that’s exactly what suicide is,” Mary replied. “It’s the most selfish act
someone can commit to.”

“You
really believe she was trying to kill herself?”

“I
can’t think of any other reason a person would jump out a window. If she wanted
to leave, she could have just walked out the door.”  

I
let out another sigh and continued my story.

The
dead were already homing in on her, trying to follow, but she was too fast for
them. She was an arching beam of life in the moaning blackness.

I
turned away and looked toward the bed. A note was placed on top of the covers
written on flower print stationary.

The
paper was still crisp and I held it in my hand, unwilling to open it. My name
was on the front flap. I didn’t want to know why. I was afraid to read the
words. I was as much a coward as I have always been. I took the folded note and
placed it into my pocket.

In
the beginning, I had seen people throw themselves from windows. I had seen
children eaten by undead parents. I had watched the weak commit suicide in hope
of not returning to life as a wretched, walking abomination.

As
I’ve wandered from town to town and past cities burning from disrepair, I have
seen every type of way a person could take their own life. It was never easy,
but it was too commonplace to not recognize it as part of the new world. Some
strove to continue on no matter the consequences and others choose to go out by
their own hand, in their own way. But to have someone you care about leave of
their own accord, to go to that extent to get away from you, it was so much
more than I deserved.

Honestly,
I don’t know why I continued to fight, why I persisted to struggle in a world
that was too dead to sustain me. At times, I thought that I enjoyed the pain;
that it kept me moving forward, always searching for a hope that just wasn’t
there.

I
sat on the couch and stared at the old radio for hours. I thought of the girl
and played with the folded note she left me. I could imagine her standing there
at the window crying, struggling with her own memories, desperate for answers
and looking for a way out.

Looking
for answers, I scoured my mind, but nothing made a connection. She was gone and
I was painfully alone. Nothing else seemed to matter.

I
thought about death and how sweet its release would have been. But more than
anything else, I wondered what the point of continuing was. It all seemed so
futile, so pointless and discouraging.

The
sun was bright through the window before I finally ate something. I took a can
from the duffle bag and placed it on the kitchen counter. I picked at the label
and scratched away at the logo on the front of the can. There was a knocking at
my heart and I considered starving. I played with the idea, empathetic of all
those who had starved to death before me. It made the pain in my stomach all
that much more unbearable.

With
the can opener, I eventually removed the top and drank down the cold soup. I
was even too much a coward to die slowly. And I was a fool for thinking
otherwise.

I
drifted in and out of sleep for days, letting the filth gather on my skin,
letting sores fester there so I could feel something. I ate when I could no
longer take the hunger and pissed out of the open window when the urge arose.

“She
meant that much to you?” Mary asked.

“It
wasn’t that she meant anything, it was the realization that she couldn’t bear
to be around me. I felt lost. No matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t
figure out why she had decided to face the dead rather than be with me.”

“She
was young and vulnerable.” She looked at me, her brow rose slightly with
compassion. “You can imagine what it was like to lose your family, but can you
imagine what it would have been like to lose them at such a young age? When
you’re young, you’re already dealing with so many confusing emotions. So much
of life is a mystery. To have everything ripped away on top of that by dead
hands. It was just too much for her.”

“Yeah,
I thought of that too,” I said. “And it made that single kiss a bitter taste on
my lips.”

Resentment
quaked inside of me for the girl leaving, resentment for the knowledge that I
wasn’t good enough to stay with, resentment for having kissed her. There was
pain and despair that went deeper than anything I had felt in a very long time.

I
hated the way that it ate at me, that knotted feeling in the pit of my stomach,
trying to purge itself from me up along my throat and out of my mouth. I wanted
to retch. I longed for its sting, for its putrid taste to become free of me, to
stream from my guts and out into the gruesome world beyond.

“So
it was about you,” she said.

“Yes,”
I replied. “It was a selfish thing, the misery I went through. I was so tired
of being alone.”

One
day, I arose. I stood up and brushed myself off. With the clothes I had found
in the other apartment, I dressed myself and packed as much food as I could
carry in my pack. I filled the water-skin that was concealed in the back of the
bag and laced the straw down from the strap and placed the cap over it. I threw
my jacket over my shoulders.

In
the bathroom mirror, I looked myself over. I stared at the bearded man in the
reflection and couldn’t recognize him any longer. This man was sickly and thin,
a waif of a man, really. He was as profound as he was unfamiliar. Somehow, I
was encouraged by the image. It was like I was someone new, someone without a
history to bind him.

I
shook off the gnawing feelings of loss that I had endured and made my way back
outside. I threw away my other self and I spat on its shadow.

My
legs were stiff from being stagnant for so long, and I worried about the dead
being able to catch up with me. But the ground felt good beneath my feet and I
was inclined to start anew, to get as far away from the loss as I could. I
simply wanted nothing more than to get away.

I
walked away the despair in my soul, trekked through the anguish, and rose beyond
the confines of my regret, always heading for home. My wife was still there,
shrouded in anguish, and I was bound to set her free.

Every
footfall helped me forget and allowed me to forge farther into the wastes. This
is what you do best, I thought, you run away.

And
once I was far enough away from the city, far out along the highway, heading
home, I was able to look around and completely forget myself.

From
a dirt road out in the middle of nowhere, miles from the onslaught of ruin and
decay, I was able to have a brief moment of peace. As fleeting as it was, it
was comforting to consider that there was nothing left but my beating heart and
sweaty brow. I was all there was at that moment, just me and my reprieve.

“In
some strange way, Constance encouraged my youth. But as time went on, stuck in
there together, I realized it wasn’t my youth that I was after. I wanted peace.
I wanted to reclaim my life. Her acceptance meant so much to me because that’s
what we’re all hardwired to believe. We want to fit in with someone else so bad
that we tend to forget who we truly are.

Children
are taught to be themselves, to stand out and shine, to be that special
individual. What really bothers me is that no matter how hard we try, we can
never be truly unique. We are burdened by our environment, our past, our
memories, our own images of what
is
acceptable and what
isn’t
acceptable.

From
the time we come out from the womb, we are cursed to become whatever it is that
our environment dictates. We are cursed to become another copy of what our
parents were, just slightly changed with new blemishes and fresh scars.”

Mary
moved in the chair, her gaze directed toward the plates that we had used,
covered in a thin layer of dry sauce. She stood and took them to the kitchen.
After some time, she returned. She stood by the doorway and looked at a few
pictures that hung on the wall.

“We
can never be anything but what we are. We learn from our mistakes and move on,”
she said. “I do agree with you that we are cursed. We’re cursed to repeat the
same things over and over again because we don’t know any different. But
sometimes, we learn and try something new and it happens to work out. Sometimes
we evolve out of the vicious circle and do something so entirely different than
the rest of the flock that we become individual. And eventually, if the idea is
good enough, others follow suit and then that original idea becomes the norm.
To me, that’s progress.”

“Once
we become individual, and others follow our turn, that special thing becomes
the norm and we are cursed again. The circle starts over,” I said.

“What,
exactly are you looking for?” she asked.

I
shook my head. “I don’t know. I’m just looking for something better.”

“There
is nothing better,” she replied. “This is it. What you see outside, what we
have become, that’s all there is.”

“I
just want to find a way to make it better than it was.”

“And
you’ll search for the rest of your life to find that one thing. But where does
it all lead to?”

“A
better way of life,” I replied.

“Even
if every one of those
things
suddenly fell over right now, and we were
given all the time in the world, we would eventually come right back to where
we started. You have to understand that change starts inside of yourself. No
matter how much others try to tread the old path, it is up to you to make
change happen. But I’ll be honest, no matter how hard you try, there will
always be conflict, there will always be that person out there who refuses to
adapt. Unless you intend to become the next Hitler or Stalin, you’re as cursed
as the rest of us to repeat the process.”

“I’m
not saying I’m right, this is just how I feel.”

“Feelings
are lies,” she said. “Describe to me what love is and there will be countless
others to disagree. It’s all a part of that circle you spoke of. We’re damned
unless we suddenly become completely logical about every little thing. I don’t
know about you, but I wouldn’t want to live in a world governed by logic. It
would be too cold to endure.

That’s
why we need religion and faith and family and emotion. Without all of those
things, life is cold and brittle. Even if all of that came to pass, there would
be someone at some point who would answer that logic with a feeling, no matter
how hard you tried to beat it out of them. We’re only human and that is our
nature.”

“Those
are the thoughts I had after Constance left and I was on my own again. It
wasn’t that she was special, it was simply that she was there,” I said.

“Is
that what I am, just someone to pass the time with?”

“No,
Mary. You’re more than that,” I replied. “You’re the first person I’ve really
talked to about any of this. You’re the first person to listen. For some
strange reason, I trust you.”

She
smiled and sat down, adjusting the pillows behind her back. “I appreciate
this,” she said. “I really do. I’ve been stuck here for so long that I have forgotten
what it was like to be with another person. In a way, you’re helping me too.
What you’re saying just reconfirms everything I’ve always believed in. When it
all comes down to it, life is about love and being loved. Isn’t that what we
really want? Isn’t that the root behind everything we do? Fancy cars, fat bank
accounts, success in life; it all comes down to wanting love, wanting to be
accepted for who we are.”

“You’re
absolutely right,” I agreed. “But I needed to find that out on my own. I think
that’s why I stopped running.”

Chapter 13

Near
collapse, I spotted a gas station, a small mini-mart on the side of the freeway.
It was the type of place travelers stop to get a quick bite, maybe a comb and
some toothpaste or a map to figure out if they’re going in the right direction.
The front doors were locked and a closed sign hung next to the entrance.

I
wasn’t sure how far I’d gone. I had walked the whole night, so it was possible
that I had gone about ten miles, but I wasn’t sure. As tired as I was, it
wasn’t the need for sleep that kept me going, it was starvation. I hadn’t eaten
in a few days, and only drank a little water from my pack. It was self
inflicted. I could have found a place to rest along the way to eat what I had
scavenged back at the apartments. But the suffering made me keep moving. I was
driven to get home.