Doomsday Diary

The world received no warning. We simply changed our behaviour, like a silent whistle that was blown, waking to find the ground scorched and communication destroyed. TV, radio and most importantly, the internet, all forms of communications were taken away yet we did not panic. We simply walked outside our doors and picked up our new clothes.

Whilst changing in the upstairs bathroom I had the feeling that someone was watching me, yet I did not scream. Pulling the skintight blue outfit over my naked body, I smiled in an uncharacteristic manner before walking downstairs to find my children. Rather than blue outfits, they were covered in red and my husband, violet. Instead of panicking, we walked outside to find our neighbours, friends and vague acquaintances staring back at us in different coloured costumes.

In total there were seven colours, a means in which to divide us, yet rather than talk about as we would have in the past, we walked to the end of our road. At this point, the crowd dispersed in multiple directions.

My new destiny was to be a washer. Not the busy socialite and mother that I once was. Someone else was raising my children now, I was unfit and whilst this was never something which had crossed my mind before, it was now as clear as day.

My children were a memory. Images of them remained around the house, yet they were not needed. The impression of them was etched into my head, like the walk to work each day. Monday to Sunday, 10 am to 10 pm I helped the others wash. To take away the stains. We never conversed, only worked. Blank slates with everything left unsaid.

For years my life moved in this manner.

This was until yesterday when I found the heart-shaped locket. Sitting at the bottom of the basic, it stared back at me like an image from the past. It was like an itch that I needed to scratch. Throughout the day it stared back at me, begging to be taken home.

So I did just that, grabbing the imaculate necklace and placing it under my lycra. At that same moment a feeling of awareness washed over me. The sudden release of emotions was like a drain being unblocked after several weeks. It was an emotional overload and it took everything that I had not to scream out for my husband and my children. What was their fate and most importantly, why was I dressed in blue?

On top of this my nose picked up a scent whcih must have been there before, yet had not registered. A putrid smell, one that as soon as my assigned toilet break arrived, required the removal of my dinner.

Taking care not to spend too long, as to raise suspicion, I took only the time that was allocated and thought of my family. Keeping the image of my children in my mind, I derived the strength needed to get to the end of the day.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. All the colours of the rainbow, separated only by each individual machine. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. It was mindnumbing, yet all those around me continued on, content in what they were doing.

I wanted to scream, to reach over and shake them but I could not. I needed to think of home and the family.

Getting through that shift was the hardest point of my life. Worse than losing our first child and worse than the realisation that my children were lost to me. They were gone and I had no idea as to where they were. They could be anywhere and reaching home that night I frantically searched through the house for a clue. Some means in which to find a connection.

Their rooms were there but everything was different. Cobwebs dominated the area and there were the remnants of a cake in the corner which had gone beyond mouldy. It was disgusting and the stench made me gag and slam the door behind me.

I couldn't believe that I had neglected the house and that everything had been left like this. I was a tidy person and to find the house in the putrid state raised more questions than answers. My room was immaculate like someone took the time each day to re-make it and remove each of the cobwebs. It felt comforting to be there. Pulling the duvet over my head, I barricaded myself, giving time for the thoughts to spiral out.

With the necklace close to my chest, I felt connected to the world of the past. I needed to be brave, yet was paralysed by fair. My legs were jelly, but curiosity reigned supreme and I rose from the bed, leaving it unmade for the first time in my life, but where to start?

My husband or my children? The memories of their colours etched in my mind propelled me forward and out into the crisp night air. I needed to know where they were.

Stepping out of the house that night I had no certainties. That feeling of knowing my life's purpose and having it removed was unsettling. The necklace offered nothing but uncertainty and I found myself missing that. Ignorance can be bliss and at that moment, it was something that left me feeling empty. I had nothing but questions.

I was tempted to take the heart-shaped necklace off and throw it to the ground, yet the knowledge that someone could pick it up stopped me. Jealously swept over me like a wave. Leaving it for the neighbours which I had previously despised was sickening, despite the situation.

With no clothes to change into at home and the desire to fit in, the lycra was my only option. If I wanted to explore, then I needed to appear as normal as possible. It kept me shielded as I walked through the shadows. It was however, not the warmest of materials and despite knowing not where to go, I knew that warmth would soon be essential.

The neighbour's house seemed a great place in which to start. For years I had despised their perfect facade and to see their house in hopeful disrepair brought a smile to my windswept face. Creeping along the outside of the house I was unable to see anything. The windows needed a clean, with the only exception being the upstairs window which had a light on.

The need to see in trumped the butterflies in my chest and so I climbed up the drain pipe. Something that the former me would never have done. I was always the safe one. My husband took the risks. He took the children skiing. He played football with them and would chase them around the house. I baked and kept the fridge stocked. I was the stereotypical soccer Mum, my role was to look beautiful, something that blue lycra did not achieve for me.

The window was unlocked and I rolled in. Careful not to disturb the plants in the hall I walked to the bedroom. It was something that would have sent me to jail in the world before, yet here there was no one to say no.

Pausing for a couple of seconds I twisted the doorknob. The door creaked open and there was no doubt that whoever was inside would have heard. Abandoning any pretence, I strode forward, stopping only when I saw my husband in the bathroom.

He was holding a knife, staring back at me with a vacant look on his face. Naked as the day God made him, he stood to attention, staring right through me.

I could have been a brick wall. No matter how much I tried, I could not reach him. He was gone but before I could take off my lycra suit to join him, the knife was raised. Like a hypnotic suggestion, he grabbed it and slowly moved it through his throat.

The crack of his windpipe was the worst. It was sickening and within a second he was dead. Unable to breathe, I sat on the bed but not before two Yellows walked through the door.

Stopping for a moment to survey the scene, they stared in the same way that my husband had. Blankly, with little more than a blink every few seconds. Carefully, they advanced into the room, passing me a note before reaching down to pick up the naked body of my husband.

There was no blood left. It had all been absorbed into the carpet like a giant sponge. The funny thing was that despite my increased awareness, I knew that there was nothing that could be done. The Yellows were well built and the only weapon was in the hands of my now rigid husband. His eyes were still open with the blankest of looks on his face.

The Yellows soon left me alone in my grief and there I sat with my legs hunched up to my eyes, crying like the day I was born. For what seemed like hours I cried, glanced at the carpet, whilst grazing my fingers over the necklace. The damned necklace that had offered me nothing but pain. My husband was dead because of me. It was my fault.

I had not raised the arm which pierced his neck, yet the feeling that if I had not come, then he would still be alive was unshakeable. It was my fault, but why? What had I done? There were so many questions and so few answers. This was when I remembered the note.

My hands were trembling as I opened the pages. The anticipation was high, like the moment in which you find out which grades you have achieved at school. I needed answers. It was however was not a note, but a small novel with multiple pages unfolding as I peeled back the first one.

It was written in a language that I used to know but could no longer understand. Gibberish was what it looked like, yet I could not bring myself to throw it away. Moving to pocket the text, my eyes moved back to the carpet and an old-style polaroid that must have fallen out.

My children were there, staring out at me in their red outfits. Staring blankly at the camera, with little knowledge of what was happening, it was a message. They were alive and flicking over the image, I saw words that were easily recognisable.

The necklace must be returned.

Panic gripped my soul. As I turned the image over a knife could be seen on the table next to the children. It was stained in red, my husband's blood.

The message was clear.