Worth Holding

June 2nd

I’m going to kill myself today.

God, writing it down feels good. Weird, but good.

I know I said I would wait until winter before giving up, but I can’t imagine waiting an entire summer here, pointlessly looking for the people I know to be long dead and gone. I used to hope they were alive, but not anymore. It feels like relief, knowing my mom and my sister Stella never had to crawl through hot garbage, looking for a place to hide after scaling the wrong side of Trash Mountain. They’ve never been spotted by a group of armed men, cackling and hollering with glee at the thought of a hunt. Hope used to be worth holding on to, but I’m past that now. If the people I love are alive, then they have left – like I should have last year – and then how would I ever find them again? No radios, no phones, no clue or breadcrumb trail for me to follow.

Every other minute, I check and check that the heart-shaped locket is still there. The only tether I still have to a life I can no longer have. There’s a picture in there — Mom, Stella, and me, all grinning in a rose garden. That locket is the only good thing I grabbed from home when the bombs hit. Isn’t that funny? An entire grab bag and most of it ended up useless. Passport, birth certification, important documents. A laptop that became useless within a week. The wrong kind of clothing: comfortable but not durable. Some candy and a single beef jerky stick thrown in for good measure. Everything worthwhile, I had to hunt or scavenge for. The most precious thing I scavenged was Benadryl. Because I am, ironically, deathly allergic to the most common anti-allergy medicine there is. And because I’ve finally had enough of this absolute hellhole of a life, I’m going to take those three pills out of my locket and swallow.

June 3rd

I’ve changed my mind.

I’m not killing myself in this city, where anyone could find my body. I can already picture it, because I’ve seen it too many times. Bodies – stripped bare, picked clean of every single useful item and scrap, by the kind of people who celebrate the act of robbing the dead. At least I’ve always had the decency to leave people clothed and unharmed.

I started walking north this morning.

So I can die with some dignity.

I remember, early in the bombing, people were still so kind to each other. We gathered in shelters and talked about the outcome of the revolution, how darkness was the precursor of light. Stella and I rocked babies while their mothers prepared food. And then, the military bombed the shelters. They bombed the hospitals. I didn’t know it until much later, but they did it to every single city on the map, with no warning.

I only stayed in the city because I hoped I would see Mom and Stella again. There was so much destruction, it was impossible to retrieve most bodies for a long, long time. I wasn’t the only who refused to give up until I saw a corpse. I told myself that they were looking for me too and that we just kept missing each other, even though I’ve never run into anyone who recognized their names or the picture in my locket. I forced myself to ignore the fact that anyone kind, anyone decent didn’t last. Most left eventually, usually north, to try to survive off the land and away from the carnage. The rest… Let’s say I’ve learned to sleep with one eye open.

I think the last time I tried to befriend someone was over a year ago. It got too painful, to always lose someone, to always get fucked over, to always stay on edge. I never thought I would be the small things I’d miss – the smile of a cashier, small talk at the bus stop, that commiserating look in a long bank line.

Now that I’m truly alone, it’s just me, my paranoia, and the stories I make up to entertain myself.

I needed a lot of stories today, walking for over ten miles. It wasn’t worth risking my life to get a bike to tinker with and repair, let alone anything with a motor. Junkyards, Trash Mountains, old wealthy neighborhoods – they’re always full of people not worth running into. Last time I went into a junkyard looking for scrap metal, I got shot at. I didn’t even think people still had bullets. Maybe they were makeshift. Either way, if I’m going to die, then I’m going to die well. In nature, eyes turned towards the sky, somewhere calm and peaceful. I’ve already chosen the place. There’s this huge mountain forest, a few days away. I used to go there during the summers and camp with Stella. I want to go to that one waterfall with the caves behind it, the ones the rangers used to tell us not to go into. I want to lie down there, on the cold rock floor, and pretend things can one day be good again.

June 4th

Beyond exhausted.

June 6th

Writing this in the last few hours before dark. It took two extra hours to find a safe sleeping spot. Even though I’m in the woods now, I don’t feel safe exposed on the ground. I’m in a tree again, like yesterday, hoping I can actually fall asleep this time. Between the fear of falling and the fear of being found, I haven’t really gotten any rest. I’ve tied myself to the trunk with some makeshift rope, but I still can’t relax. The woods are both too silent and too loud, and I can’t help but freak out at the smallest sounds.

I’m so exhausted I think my body might collapse by itself tomorrow.

I can’t wait to reach the caves.

June 10th

This is the first time I’ve felt safe taking out this journal in a few days.

I ran into someone. I still can’t believe it. I was walking off-trail, using some old, likely inaccurate map I found in a visiting center eons ago. I should have ran from her, but I was so tired I barely reacted. I just kept walking the way I was headed. She followed me silently for a few minutes and then jogged up and forced me to stop. Asked me all sorts of questions about where I was coming from, where I was going, what I wanted. And then, she said I looked pitiful and forced some food into my hands. Deer jerky. I felt so weak I just ate in silence while she blabbed about her camp and the others there. She told me her name was Iris.

I honestly don’t remember why I chose to follow her. Maybe it was the hunger, or not having slept properly for two nights in a row, or the weird hazy lighting of golden hour. All I know is that reaching her camp felt like walking into a different world. There were a lot of people there, more than I could be bothered to count. There were children, laughing and playing. Two dogs – one golden brown, the other a deep shade of black – barking and running into circles around the kids. Above all, it was the scent that broke me down – clean air mixed with the pungent, savory smell of deer stew on the fire.

All I’ve done for the past three days is sleep, eat, and help repair things around camp. I wish I could do more for the people who fed me without asking many questions. I must look in worse shape than I think, because I’m frequently asked to rest. I’ll sometimes sit and silently scrub vegetables with whoever is working near the cooking area. The forest’s old camping cabins have been reclaimed as homes, and then expended upon. It’s easy to spot the buildings that were built in the past year, because they look less polished, more fragile, but people don’t seem to mind.

Iris made arrangements for me, even though it meant she slept on the floor the first night. I tried so hard to argue, but she wouldn’t hear reason. She reminds me so much of Stella, which is both lovely and horribly painful. The same golden hair, the same easy smile, this stubborn drive to help others at all cost. She made me feel like a person again. It’s the first time in so long I’ve actually had reasons to trust others. To feel hope and warmth. To laugh, even for a brief moment.

But I still came to the caves.

I think I’m supposed to feel happy, to feel relief, having found kind people again. I can be safe with Iris and the others. I really think I could build a new life, if I wanted to. I just have to let myself want all these things. It’s hard pushing through guilt.

I met someone who has seen my mother and my sister. He says that they were looking for me when the second bomb hit and killed them both instantly. He was crying talking about it, soft sobs shaking his massive shoulders. I felt that familiar dread take over my body, and then nothing. I didn’t cry. I just let the emptiness take me.

No amount of safety, food, or rest can make me whole again. I know that.

The world can’t be whole again, either. Or at least I don’t feel it can.

But I’ll still have to go on living. I had told myself I didn’t have to, because there’s no one left for me to care about, but that’s no longer true. There’s a young girl at camp, named Alicia, who has been following my every move since yesterday. There’s Tom, the man who sobbed for my family, and his own family. There’s Iris.

I don’t know what the afterlife holds, but it might hold the people I love. And maybe one day, we can be together again. I can tell Stella about all gross bugs of Trash Mountain and she can squeal at how disgusting it all was. It can all feel like a distant memory I never have to live through again. I can tell my mom how much I’ve missed her and the way she sings when she’s having a good day. I can hear sing again. But when I see them again, I don’t want it to be because I gave up.

I came to the cave, so I can make new plans for myself. Plans to match the new life I’m building.

I’ll keep Stella’s spirit alive through peeling carrots and brushing children’s hair. I’ll keep sleeping on the floor of Iris’ home. I’ll keep finding the good firewood with Tom. I’ll keep helping others make things good again, even if they’re not quite whole. No one at camp is quite whole anyway. We’ve all lost so much. But we can be happy again. We can take care of each other. That matters to me more than I thought it would. It doesn’t fix everything, but it’s a start.

I know soon, I’ll start looking stronger, healthier, happier.

And eventually, I might feel it, too.

I’m leaving this journal here, where someone may or may not find it. I don’t want to read these memories anymore, but I hope one day, they might help someone like me.

Someone who lost everything and felt the void swallow her, and still let herself be pulled forward by the smallest bit of hope.