V-Day

It started on Valentine’s Day, coincidentally enough. That was when the first report came out. I remember being at a party in the suburbs and watching, on the news, as a woman described the conditions of a couple found dead in Virginia, their hearts quite literally rotten. No signs of foul play. What could it mean?

Thousands more cases followed in the weeks after, and eventually, people figured out that the only similarities between all the deceased – all the bodies, rotted from the inside out, bruises across their chests and mold in their lungs and more physical similarities to an old fruit than a corpse (rigor mortis was replaced by mushy skin and shriveled faces and bodily fluids oozing from flesh like nectar) – was that they died in twos, always two, always either dating or married or siblings or parents or friends…

Love! Love, the cause of this, scientists and doctors stated with certainty. When it was announced that love could be killing people in such gruesome ways, everyone went into a frenzy. Self-isolation was vital to keeping yourself and those you cared about alive, but how long must it last? I’d have thought humanity’s downfall would be zombies or aliens or a flaming asteroid; anything but this. 

The rules were laid out clearly enough: don’t interact with anyone you feel any sort of tenderness for (family, friends, lovers); limit contact with the outside world as much as possible (including social media and forms of online communication); do not allow yourself to fall in love. You feel even an inkling of attachment, you stomp it out and suffocate it with isolation. Making any connection with anyone could lead to possible feelings, and feelings could lead to death.

I sat in my apartment and watched as my view morphed from that of a city skyline to an apocalyptic world of silence. 

Of course, there were protesters who thought they could fight the Virus. They’d do stupid things like show passion and intimacy and kindness, and their bodies were always discovered in back alleys or public parks, slimy and deteriorating, reeking of failed rebellion.

Fear had us in a chokehold. Mobs formed, but the justice system didn’t care anymore. I lost my apartment in a fire started by rioters, and with nowhere else to go, wandered from abandoned building to abandoned building.

Three years into post-Virus living, I was walking aimlessly, searching for a place to sleep, and came upon an old library. It was majestic on the outside, church-esque in its all knowing glory, while the inside held an eerily intact look. Besides the layers of dust and toppled over stacks of unshelved books, everything felt strangely normal. I decided I would stay for the night.

Through a window, I watched the sky darken. The city at night had become unsafe, the streets a mess of drug rings and guns and a general mass of angry, violent people. Already, figures were creeping out the dark, clusters of hooded figures forming under streetlights. 

I searched the library for food and managed to find a bag of potato chips – sour cream and onion flavored, major score – in a desk that must’ve belonged to a librarian at one point. There was a cat figurine on its surface, as well as a photo, framed but with a cracked glass, of a white haired woman hugging a little girl no older than five. Her granddaughter? I wondered where they were now.

It’d been a while since I’d picked up a book, but I could recall my old self reading often. Poetry, mainly, and gory thrillers. I decided to look through the shelves, considering I had nothing better to do. I’d save the chips for later. Sour cream and onion must be savoured.

I found poetry to be like reading a sheet of cardboard. Perhaps I was misremembering my previous enjoyment of it, or perhaps my apathy-fueled survival had left me unable to connect with stanzas sticky with sentimentality. Fleeing the poetry section, I discovered a collection of Agatha Christie books that looked promising.

I was reading the inside flap of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd when a shuffling sound caught my attention. I looked up and found myself staring at a stranger.

He vanished, only to appear in my row seconds later. Judging from the state of him – disheveled, his droopy expression comparable to a sad puppy – he wasn’t a threat, so I said hello.

“I didn’t realize someone was already here,” I added.

“Oh, no, don’t worry. I won’t bother you.” 

“Alright.”

I wondered if it would be rude to eat my chips without offering him any. I was then surprised by my concern over manners. It’d been a long time since I conversed with a person, but apparently my isolation had not hardened me enough to transform me into an impolite psychopath. Dammit.

“Are you hungry?” I asked. 

He grinned. He had dimples. “I just raided the place for food.”

“That’s weird. So did I.”

“I probably got here first. Stole all the good stuff.”

“Ah.”

He was the kind of boy I might have liked in high school. 

“I could leave. This may not be a very good idea,” I said.

“It’s almost night time. Stay. I don’t mind.”

“If you’re sure that’s what you want.” I was relieved. I had nowhere else to go.

“Let’s go have a feast. I’ve got plenty of food to share,” he suggested, motioning for me to follow him. 

He had chips and Twinkies (they do last through an apocalypse!). We passed a bag of Lay’s back and forth, sitting atop a table. Neither of us mentioned the Virus, but he told me about his love for action movies (James Bond!) and I told him that I had recently become a hater of poetry. He agreed that it was overrated.

I did not know his name, and he did not know mine, and for whatever reason, that made our talking feel okay. When you exchange names, attachments form. This way, everything felt impersonal and lighthearted. The gravity of identity did not weigh us down.

After a while, I realized that he was the first person I’d spoken to since losing my apartment. Usually, during my hunt for temporary shelter, I would see people on the street and cross the other way. Once, I saw my (former) best friend sleeping on a park bench and forced myself to walk past her without a word.

I felt okay with this stranger. He was sweet.

Having eaten all the chips and Twinkies, we laid down on the ground. Through the library’s skylight, we could see the moon, full and fat. 

“I feel bad for the moon,” I admitted. I’d never see this man again in my life, so why not tell him my stupid musings? “It seems so alone.”

“I feel bad for the stars.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re all in the same sky, but they’re too far away to talk to each other.”

“Stars can’t talk, genius.”

“You know what I mean.”

I felt a sting in my chest. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

We laid there, in silence, and I listened to him breathe. It was one of the greatest luxuries in the world, hearing another person inhale and exhale slowly. At that moment, it became my favorite sound. 

“How come you’re not afraid to talk to me?” I asked him. “How come you’re not scared to connect with a total stranger?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“I dunno. I’m lonely.”

He reached out in the darkness and grabbed my hand. Softly. My words hung between us in the silence.

When I woke hours later with purple and brown bruises across my chest and a sharp pain in my heart, I knew it was the end. I knew the Virus had come for me, and, turning, saw it'd already taken him. His puppy dog eyes were frozen open, head tilted toward me, mouth slightly agape like he’d been trying to speak but couldn't get the words out in time. I knew what he meant to verbalize, because although I was rotting and dying, I was feeling it too – love.