Writing On the Wall

Take a sip of water from your palm out of the sink. Stretch. Take a bite of a protein bar. Mark the day on the wall. Pace around. Sing to yourself. Pace around. Yell for help. Pace around. Take a bite of a protein bar. Sip water from your palm. Pace around. Cry yourself to sleep.

Entropy is inevitable in life, and we hardly ever see it coming. Life insurance policies, savings accounts, ROTH IRA's, that piece of land you bought in Idaho, that car you spent 20 years restoring, that knit blanket you started in Home Ec. and never finished- what does it amount to when you're gone? What matters when life meets death? The inevitable.

I spent the last two years of my life confined to four cement walls. Humans need space to walk around. The air always smells moist. A stone sink that is too shallow to put my face in. A metal toilet that only has water when it flushes. A mat on the ground that has been on Earth longer than I've been alive. Food is served to inmates through a small opening on a gate that provides the only sunlight to a cell here, provided it isn't too foggy or cloudy outside. The opening never closes. The sun always goes down.

I worked as an operations manager for a tech start-up in San Jose for the last decade. Our family lived a very comfortable life, paying $5,000 a month for rent in Redwood City. I drove a Tesla, I recycled, I voted. If you picture a radical leftist who never speaks-up to avoid confrontation- or never attends a march for the mental security of their family's safety- that's me. The person at the end of the bar drinking water without ice. The person investing money through Coinbase in hopes of retiring early. The person on the train with wired headphones on, looking at all of the people instead of staring at a phone. A quiet existence. A hope-filled future. I never anticipated the inevitable.

They say this place used to be a bunker in the WWII era, up in the Marin Headlands near San Francisco. The sound of waves breaking against rocks outside is a comfort, but I cannot see them. Not maintained for decades. Not guarded for years. Too far from a road. A perfect place for teenagers in the early 2000's to graffiti and smoke marijuana in. I found myself locked-up here after the nuclear fallout- the decline of the economy- the collapse of capitalism- the deployment of the military- the worldwide response- the inevitable.

Pace around. Yell for help. Cry yourself to sleep.

On our last days as a free humans, I was scrambling to pack my kids' things, or at least the necessities. Eddy can't go anywhere without a Nintendo Switch in his hands. Emily needs her favorite pillow that Grandma gave her for her second birthday. However, my little girl's incredibly important comfort item was displaced among the boxes we had prepared to leave the country with. I was certain it was in the box labeled blankets, but for some reason my partner used it to cushion the mugs we intended to bring with us. Walk into any mid-west gas station gift-shop and you'll find a treasured mug to remember your trip by- eventually we ran out of cabinet space and started loading older ones into boxes, long before we were aware of what was to come.

I wish that I could tell you I ended up in this cell for some heroic act. My lineage would remark, "They wouldn't let anyone take their kids." That the historians could claim that I stood and fought for America's dying breath. That someone would remember me as a martyr for my coworkers. Or maybe the philosophers would speculate that nothing would keep me apart from my life's work. But landing in this cement room just happened to be a part of the inevitable.

Stretch. Drink water from your palm. Sing to yourself.

I was given a sharpie when I arrived here. At first I used it specifically to keep track of days gone by- writing on the wall, a line for every time light came through my porthole to the outside world. I awoke one morning to an open Costco box of protein bars with a note that only said, "I'm so sorry." I would use circles around my count to note days that the bombs dropped, and eventually I would start putting x's for the days that passed without hearing another human being. If my counts are correct:

• I have been in this room for 726 days
• It has been 48 days since I was left with any food
• It has been 31 days since the bombs stopped dropping
• It has been 19 days without hearing anyone else

Pace around. Take a bite of a protein bar. Cry yourself to sleep.

After months of explosions and continuous yelling from other cells, the first few days of silence were absolutely deafening. I would pass the time singing old Disney tracks that my kids insisted on playing on repeat in the car. Occasionally I would scream until my eyes saw sparkles in hopes that anyone would come to my aid. All that I've had is time to think, and all I can think about is what can I impart on this world. Whatever history I can share. Whatever wisdom I've acquired. A message for my family in case they find me. My own decay is inevitable.

Mark the day on the wall. Pace around. Yell for help.

As I reached the last few bars in the bottom of the box, much to my surprise... a shining sliver of metal hidden beneath a flap of cardboard. I peel back the tape securing the bottom, and out falls a silver heart. This box has been with me for nearly two months and I've never noticed this. A most peculiar heart-shaped locket that has been buried beneath my only food supply. On it are the letters "E&E," and I can't help but think of my kids. Did they send this to me? Are they safe? Do they know where I am? Where are they now? I open the clasp hoping to find answers inside, but the locket is... empty.

My head full of questions, my stomach in knots, my heart aching, and the taste of salt water reaching my mouth.

Rationing is a matter of will power, and to stretch out my supply, I have been eating only a bite or two a day. Even if I change to every other day now, I will be out of food in the next week. Everything that I have is running out: my food, my ink, my energy, and my sanity. My existence here is nothing but writing on the wall. With the remaining time and ink I have left, I feel called to leave something behind for whoever may find this. I need to use the rest of this marker for something other than tallies on these walls. If you were in this cell at the end of the world, what would you leave behind?

I pace around. I scream for help. I cry myself to sleep. The inevitable.