Aftermath

By Anoushka Poddar

Today is the war’s fifth anniversary.

It is also the fifth anniversary of father’s death day.

I walk to his grave and lay down a few limp flowers I grew on my windowsill. It’s still unbelievable that it’s been five years. He was one of the first victims of the war. When that first bomb fell on the department store, it took him with it. Mother escaped unscathed, and she found his dismembered corpse lying on the road.

We couldn’t find his head though, so we buried what we could find.

Mother disappeared that day. The grief ripped her away, and the world left her a tortured, frail husk of her former self. I do not know what has happened to her, if she is alive, or buried six feet deep. But I hope, I hope that she is alive and well and remembers me.

I sit down beside the plant I used to mark his grave. It is growing well and strong, the decaying body underneath the soil keeps it going. It’s a way of remembering him, I guess. Even after the world forgets about him, the soil will remember.

I sit beside him, and talk. I tell him about my life. I tell him about Max, our dog, and how he must be doing in heaven. I tell him about the grenade he nibbled by accident, and the explosion. I don’t go into the nitty-gritty bits. He deserves to know only the good parts, for nothing good comes out of disturbing the dead.

“Happy death-aversary.” I say and walk back home.

I miss them.

I know, I should feel guilt and hurt and pain, but I cannot.

I have simply gone numb.

I am alone, and I must deal with it.

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In these five years, I have settled into a routine.

Every morning, I wake up the second my beaten-up alarm clock goes off. Honestly, I have no idea how it’s still functioning. I have some water left over from earlier which I use to wash my face and do all my business. I pick out a can from my ever-dwindling stock of canned food. Usually baked beans. Not the best choice, but it’s all that I have. I eat half using a makeshift tin spoon, and leave the other half hidden away from all the rats and roaches. I grab my coat, and my knife, and take off.

I am one of the lucky ones. The war drifted away from my city; it gravitated toward the bigger cities until little was left here. Most people don’t even think that anybody is alive in this decimated part of the country anymore. Even though everything is ruined, and broken, and frayed at the edges, this is home, and I am safe here, so I stay.

The entire day, I walk around stealing things. Groceries, abandoned packets of snacks, crushed and empty water bottles. All of this, I reuse. I eat the groceries whenever I can get my hands on some spare wood. The other waste, I crush and use them wherever I need to. To stuff pillows, prop up rocky, termite infested furniture, or to fashion into thin, flexible blades.

At night, the few remaining soldiers come out with their bulky guns, and their ragged, bulletproof vests, so I am careful. I put on my coat, black and discreet, and sneak over to the well that the armies built when the war started. It would be preferable to go during the morning, but during the day, the military patrols are heavily increased around that area. I stay well out of it if I can, but I need water.

By the time darkness comes around, the soldiers are gone, sneaking away to drink themselves sick, or fool around gambling. I pull out a few buckets of water, and go back home to sleep.

The next day, I repeat everything again.

And life goes on.

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Whenever I give myself a moment to rest, memories bombard me.

The two years I spent on the run, the few months I got to spend with Max and Mother, the tumultuous times of middle school. How insignificant they seem now.

I don’t pay much attention to those memories though. I do not have the time to. My life is inching away from me, being spent while I struggle to survive. I have not been able to truly live since the bombs fell, and ate away at the thread that was my life, my home. Sometimes, I do wish to live. I wish to breathe in crisp, fresh air, to see green trees and clear, blue skies, to smile at busy passersby and watch their confused faces smile back. But when I do, reality sinks its curved claw into my skin and drags me backwards until I no longer know blood from wine.

What I wish for will never matter.

Only the faint patter of footsteps, the smell of food, and the soft gurgle of water ever will.

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That night, I have a nightmare.

I have nightmares pretty frequently, but this one is special.

I see Mom, smiling and giggling, and alive.

I see Dad, the same potbellied, booming, firecracker of a man.

I see Max, running after a stick, with no hands to hold him back.

Then the bombs start falling.

“Why didn’t you save us?”

“You didn’t even grieve.”

“You don’t deserve to be here right now.”

“You were the worst child anybody could have.”

“We should be alive right now.”

“It should have been us.”

“It should have been you.”

Sweat flows down my back and my eyes jerk open.

I storm out of my broken-down house.

I do not put on my coat. I do not take my knife. I do not care less about anything in the world right now.

I walk outside, and scream.

For a good five seconds, I do nothing but scream.

I know, I’m probably attracting every solider withing a mile to hunt me down, but still I scream. All of my frustrations, sadness, pain, anguish, come pouring out. I’ve broken open a dam which will not stop flowing until it is empty.

-------------------------------------------

The well.

That’s where I’ll go.

I’m going to die anyway, so might as well not die alone.

Maybe one of the soldiers will find me, and will gun me down before I do it myself. I really hope they do. Dad always told me that dying without a fight wasn’t the way to go.

A plane whizzes over me, and relief scrambles its way into my heart.

By the time I reach the well, the sky is alight.

Bright flares of light drift down, leaving soft, shimmering afterglows.

I stand by the well, breathing it in.

The lights bend, and in the water of the well, I see myself for the first time in five years.

Wild eyes, fever-bright and emotionless. Messy silver hair, running down my shoulders. Pale, pockmarked skin and hands so thin I could I see my bones.

Oh, how I’ve changed.

Memories, cold and daunting and golden dare me.

As the bombs plummet down, I hear one go off with a final ‘bang’.

The cue to close the curtains.

The cue to let everything go.

I feel heat, roiling and searing and merciful.

My lips curve, and I let the darkness take me.

By Anoushka Poddar