Desolation
8 a.m.
The tap runs low this morning. She cleans the plates, her eyes stuck on the motions of the scrub as her mind runs amok. Her hair unkept, hides her face on the sides, it threatens to drag on the dishes. She looks out her frosty window pane, the tree lines stretching to the distance while the mild echo of wind howling fills her room. It’s peace on the island. She lives here, a place at the end of the world.
She opens up the lid off the kettle. She pours into a mug and strutting a kitchen chair along she settles on the porch. Taking a mild sip, she looks up. The event horizon has grown bigger this morning, much bigger. Taking a sip again she looks into the tree lines. It’s serene and comforting.
11 a.m.
She walks along the gravel road with bushes now hedging on either sides. This used to be a better view. She never thought she would miss civilization through such nuisances. At least back then someone would care to trim them. She wouldn’t know who, she wouldn’t wanna learn either but the growth would be kept. Now the setting is getting creepier. Whenever she walks, she has a sense of someone watching her from the bushes, behind the trees. But she knows, it’s just her and she will be fine.
She also misses the sensors on the store’s doors that used to work some time ago. The bearings have worn out and she does notice the slides getting rustier. Two shelves to the left, she picks up a few cans of tuna from the frozen section that has long gone warm. This reminds her of times back when her mother would berate her for eating unhealthy. Ever so health conscious, her mother was borderline obsessive with her family eating healthy and going up for regular tests. She wasn’t too keen but she obliged. She was never one to complain. Always the mild mannered, the rumblings inside her never went rogue.
Her father wouldn’t say a thing either. She remembers him making stock portfolios on her name that she could draw from in the future. He would remind her to go back to her accounts and attend to the changes and announcements. But she would regularly miss the updates, as was her case with most other things in life. She would lose money and her father had his share of disappointments.
Looking at the shelves as she walks to the door, she tries to think of anything else that she may need. She runs her eyes along the cluster of shelves as if she cared, and slowly moves out the door.
1 p.m.
Strutting along the road, she glances at the building her husband used to work in. She had visited him there once. She remembers his cabin. She felt it had that sort of a naked setting you get when the room has too much sunlight, with transparent windows and no curtains. The room smelt nice though and so did his assistant. She remembers using the same cologne as her one time. She felt that her husband could be attracted to this, the firm bodied sprightly young assistant. Hair curled up, edges ending right above her breasts, she was well built. She had a lovable face as well. Her husband’s type. She was indifferent though. The passion had died a long time ago.
4 p.m.
She takes a quick bath. The geyser has long gone dead. She is starting to change her mind about warmth being a luxury. It has been a long time since she last sat on her bathtub. It was a good reading place. Now its just the bed or the creaking table that once added to the posh factor of her room.
She tries to read but her mind keeps drifting. It’s not like a lot is happening but she can’t even track the thoughts she had the previous moment. It’s a fast track up there.
9 p.m.
She looks at the cup, a collection of random ball pens. She always knew she wanted to write but every sitting ended with exertions of a writer’s block that persisted 24/7. She felt she had the capacity to write though. She imagined scenarios that she felt were a different take, but pulled on the heartstrings creating nostalgia all the same. In her isolated thoughts, she imagined ideas manifesting into scripts and actions on command. Well wouldn’t that be an interesting setup? But, reality is the dominant dimension in this one and now its nearing an end.
She settles into the comfort of her bed. The day is done. Gazing to the unholy brightness outside her window, she zones out again, drifting and falling asleep.
Gazing from a distance..
The pull should have been instant, time is supposed to go faster up there. But the planet remains static. It is supposedly losing its brightness and there is no visible motion. Away as it drifts, the speck gets tinier until the light finally dies out.
