He Remembered

Shining down upon the city and in through his window, the sunlight’s gentle touch was enough to crack his eyes open, forcing him to greet the morning. Exactly like every other morning, his cat pawed at his face forcing him to move over so it could lay down in front of his pillow.

He was sweating ... again.

Always sweating.

No matter what he did, he always awoke sweating. “Hurry up! We’ve work to do,” his father yelled. Ever since war broke out, his father had been all about duty and honour. He wanted nothing to do with it, so his father continually mocked his ‘weakness,’ never failing to miss an opportunity to point it out. Day in and day out and, lately, his father had been pressing him harder and harder.

Pushing himself up, the sweat rained in a slight shower onto his pillow. It would be the only shower to occur in his house for the next week. Water rationing! They had to make sure the military had all the resources it needed at its disposal, even if that meant that the rest went with the minimum or less. Stepping off the bed, the floor felt gritty ... everything felt gritty. Everything felt dirty like there was dust on it all. Even his clothing smelt of sweat and dirt as he dressed. They hadn’t been cleaned in two weeks, but even fresh they stunk. It was a choice: clean clothes or a bath, never both.

Like most days, upon exiting his room his father handed him a half-filled tin of cold stew, “Here! You can have what’s left as breakfast.”

“Give him a piece of bread as well,” his mother shouted from the upstairs kitchen.

Throwing him a piece of stale bread, his father stormed off in a huff, “We’ve work and we’re wasting daylight.” With that, his father headed up the stairs and out the backdoor.

The bread nearly shattered as he bit down.

Draining the last of the stew savagely, using what softness the bread still had as a sponge to get the last drop, he didn’t dare throw away the can. His father would yell at him again, grating the last nerve he had for the man. The cans were either given to the army for their tin, recycled, or used to gather rain water for extra water rations, which of course the government encouraged so they could deduct given rations. Trudging up the stairs, he saw the extra rations just sitting all around the place going stale. Fresh water tasted clean, but these tasted old. They tasted dirty, ashen even, so he had to live in his memory of fresh water every time he took a sip to avoid throwing up.

With the sun rising higher into the sky, he exited the house. He was careful not to slam the door as it had been damaged in the last windstorm. Wood was rationed, and fixing a door that still clung to hinges wasn’t a priority. Everything was rationed: food, water, wood, electricity … everything but the air. Even clothing was rationed. Clean clothes were kept for special occasions while everyday clothing were all but worn out.

Looking to his right, he found the only bright spot in his life. Always there to greet him, like the sun, she had her customary wave and smile. Her blonde hair blew in the slight morning breeze as her natural red lips curled. She was special. She didn’t have to work because of her heart. “Give ‘er up boy, she’s too good for you. Even with that broken heart of hers,” his father accompanied the comment with a slap on the back and the loudest laughter he could muster.

Mocking him once more. Always mocking him.

But she held her smile as she took her usual place on the rusted swing set. Always watching him and his father cut wood for the army, she never failed to be there and he never failed to enjoy the creak of the rusted swing moving back and forth.

Still, they had to work, cutting wood so they could earn their rations. The world was at war after all. The enemy had threatened nuclear attacks if their demands were not met and their government responded likewise. Every government responded likewise. While nukes had not yet been deployed, attacks had occurred in many countries and many borders had been invaded. New conflicts had been ignited and old conflicts reignited. Every government had the excuse to exploit their peoples by imposing martial law, for domestic enemies were often warned of.

Picking up his axe, he listened to the rusted swing sing, using it as a beat to swing by. This particular tree was rather thick and almost didn’t fit in their backyard for cutting. Normally, he and his father produced five to six hundred pieces each week, but this trunk was proving rather like stone. Each hit seemed to damage the axe more than the wood. Missing the chainsaw they had, he remembered that gasoline was considered too precious to give to people that could use their hands and feet. That did not stop the military from driving around, flaunting their vehicles.

Lunch came with the fresh smell of sweet breads and pastries as it always did. The nearby soldiers devoured them before he and his father were allowed. His mother, being a cook, ate with the soldiers, but neither he nor his father liked the way they treated her. Still, he and his father were impotent. A complaint meant their rations were cut. If they continued after that, they would be imprisoned, or worse, executed.

Splitting another tin of stew, their only grace was each had a slice of stale bread.

With the sun beating down, they worked. Well passed dinner and into the night, they worked. Finally finishing the tree, they ate another stale piece of bread with a few mouthfuls of cold creamed corn for supper. Washing it down with a tin of stale rain water, he was forced back into the memory of the fresh water taste just to swallow the ashen-tasting liquid.

Even though he could see the water clearly, there seemed to be a coating to it. An unseen film altering the taste.

Today was strange: his father said nothing to him all day. Usually, his father made the work unbearable with comments about weakness over and over, but today the silence grated on him instead. Somehow he missed the verbal communication, no matter how abusive.

Trudging back to his room, he stripped. He always slept naked, hoping to avoid the inevitable morning sweat. His cat was there again, sleeping in front of his pillow and purring away. Throwing his blanket back, he crawled next to his oldest and best friend.

The next day was the same and the one following. The same stew and stale bread. The same dinner. The same joke about the girl next door and the new routine of silence. Daily his father mocked him, but now it seemed he didn’t. Worse, he couldn’t remember when it had stopped. And each day seemed to be growing darker like the sun was less and less, despite shining down upon him.

However, it was still the same sun, the same wave from her, and that same sweet smile. He never had the nerve to talk to her; he never knew why. Having grown up next door to each other their entire lives, he even knew of her heart condition. What it was exactly, he couldn’t remember, but she had one. Yet, he never spoke to her. He could not remember why.

With the sun rising upon another day, it was to the same dull routines. “I said GET UP!” His father yelled for the third time. Not wanting to get out of bed that particular day, he felt the weight of something press upon him. A feeling of dread crept over him like he was alone in this world, like the idea of him being alone was crushing him, yet he wasn’t alone. Clearly remembering the smell of sweet breads his mother baked every morning, he also couldn’t ignore his father yelling at him. She would also be there to greet him, with that wave and that smile.

That morning his father left a three-quarters eaten can of old tomatoes as his breakfast. No bread this time; he missed the stale bread. Still, she was there again like he knew she would be, smiling and waving. He didn’t have the heart to wave back. That pressure intensified as he picked up his axe and joined his father on a new tree.

“Late as usual,” his father spat, finally speaking again.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Ah, is the little boy gonna whine for his mamma next?”

“Dad, I’m not in the mood.”

“Don’t let her see you cry.”

He was done.

Dropping the axe, he turned to the house, stopping only as his father called out, “You don’t work. You don’t eat, boy.” Gazing upon her swinging, listening to the squealing the chains made as they moved and the chain-link fence rattling in the wind, he knew his father was right. Ever since the damn attacks started and the war began, it was work or starve. WORK OR STARVE! Day in and day out, work or starve.

Turning, he picked up his axe and went back to chopping. Each swing became heavier and heavier. Each breath was more laboured as the air became stifling, filled with something unseen. And each mocking comment his father made grew darker and darker. In those brief moments he could steal, he turned to her and found her eyes on him, lightening the load it seemed.

“I’m hungry,” his father began, “I think I’ll eat your cat tonight.”

“What?”

“Why not? It doesn’t do anything but eat, sleep, and shit. It’s an animal, I’m gonna eat it.”

“No you’re not. It’s my cat —” Everything seemed hollow suddenly. Time had gotten away from him: when did lunch pass? The sky was darkening. Where was his mother? There were no smells or sounds coming from the kitchen. He couldn’t remember when he last smelt the sweet breads his mother baked. The sun dimmed more, going behind a dark cloud. He couldn’t even remember when he had last seen such a cloud.

“A nice spit roast for dinner tonight.” His father laughed loudly and mockingly.

With shaking hands, his body trembled. His mind began to spin and his anger boiled in his veins. Tightening his grip, his father’s laughter haunted him and he ran.

And he swung.

Embedding the axe into his father’s skull, his father fell. He fell on top of the dead man. She didn’t scream as he continued to chop at his father over and over again. He swung until his arms went numb and he could no longer hold the axe. Dropping the weapon brought the clank of wood against rock, not the sound he was expecting. Sitting back with closed eyes, he breathed deep the stale, ashen air that surrounded him. There was no smell of blood. No sweet breads.

There was not even the sound of the rusted chains moving back and forth.

Only ash filled his nostrils.

He remembered.

Cracking his eyes open, darkness greeted him. Dark clouds hung over head. There were always opaque clouds since the end. Peering down, all that was beneath him was a dried husk, a headless corpse. The skull was nothing more than dust pounded into the pavement; the remains of a father he didn’t kill.

Looking up, he found a skeleton desiccated by time lying next to the swing that no longer moved in the cold, lifeless breeze. A knife in her chest, her hands resting on the hilt. He knew she had not done it. Turning to look at the tree, he found bare ground with pulverized rocks. His house was not much more than a shell with the kitchen roof caved in when his eyes fell upon it.

He remembered.

Rising, he made his way to the rusted chain-link fence, his eyes never leaving her. Alexi was her name.

The escalation of the war led to its inevitable conclusion: when soldiers and standard weapons failed, nukes were deployed. First to die were the plants once the end came. Then the animals. Of course, the war’s aftermath birthed the darkest, most nightmarish existence human minds could create: most who survived the radiation became marauders and cannibals. Most left their humanity behind. Without the sun, people were driven mad with the missing cycle of day and night.

He remembered.

Begging him to help her, she couldn’t do it herself, for it was the only mortal sin and she wanted heaven after surviving hell. Climbing the fence, he stared into her eyes as he pushed down. She was crying, and he believed them tears of joy.

The truth was much harder to take.

She cried because she had reached the apex of despair that came over many who had not thrown away their humanity. Having made love the night before, when he awoke, he found her clothing still on the floor. She was swinging naked outside in the frigid air, crying so long that her eyes were puffy and her cheeks red. Begging him, pleading with him to do it, she couldn’t do it herself. Lifting the knife, she placed it against her breast. “Please,” it was the only word he remembered from her. He couldn’t remember her voice otherwise, but her whispered “please” was clear. Placing his hand against the handle, he pressed. She smiled. She smiled that smile. Resting her gently against her favourite thing, he watched her drift silently into darkness.

Peering down upon himself, he was wearing her clothing as well as his. All buried under one hefty winter coat. All ragged and worn out. Looking at his gloved hands, he realized he couldn’t feel them. They were someone else’s hands. This was someone else’s life.

Turning back to his father, his hands were shaking again, but there was no hatred. There was no anger. His father’s cruelty gone. There was only the cold now.

He remembered.

Alexi had outlasted both her parents and he had survived his.

The blast came from the centre of town and destroyed much of the surrounding area. Alexi already outside waving and smiling at him, she had always been so kind to him their entire lives. Of course, his father was already working. He had just left the house when the shock wave came. The roof collapsed into the kitchen killing his mother. His father went flying into the newest tree and bounced off onto the axe he had dropped; his father’s skull now cleaved in two. Alexi had been thrown back, but no real damage done. Her house was flattened, taking the brunt of the shock wave’s edge, killing both her parents. Deciding that being together was better than being alone, she moved in. When the food began to run out, when the rumours of the marauders arose, she broke.

He couldn’t remember how long it had been. He couldn’t remember his father or his mother. He couldn’t even remember their names, just the echo of cruelty and scent of sweet breads. He couldn’t remember his name. He remembered just her and her name. Her sweetness. Her kindness. Her grave.

He remembered.

He remembered most poignantly the look of freedom on her face when the knife bit her heart.

Trudging back into the house, he climbed down the stairs that still remained avoiding the ash-covered water tins. He had forgotten to close the door, but then again the door was gone. He couldn’t remember when it finally fell off. Staring at the footsteps in the ash that covered everything, only his footsteps were there. Two sets of them: one going up and the other coming down. Opening the door to his room, the skeletal remains of his cat resting at the base of his pillow greeted him. He couldn’t remember the cat’s name either.

There was a window, the glass more a mirror as ash painted the outside. Looking at it, he found his face older than he remembered. Lines of age and long stringy hair greeted his dull eyes as he looked upon the man whose life this was. It was not his. Looking back to the remains of his oldest friend, he paused. The name on the tip of his mind, he believed it started with a D, but he couldn’t be sure. Still dressed in clothing and his makeshift boots, he slowly lifted the covers and crawled into bed next to his friend.

And as he rested his head against the flattened pillow, he closed his eyes and knew that when the sun greeted him tomorrow he would see her again.