La Marche Funèbre

Day 1,017, Inside

Peter starts every morning with coffee. When he had creamer, he poured two in. When there was sugar, he put in half a scoop. He has neither, and tomorrow, he will be out of beans. 

Peter does not let this deter him from routine. He brings the cup to his lips. In a few seconds, he will make some variation of a comment about the taste, usually how watered down it is. 

The lights flicker on. Peter seems to be in a good mood, today. 

“Good morning, Peter,” I say.

Peter grunts in response. “Play me something.” 

I do as he asks. I’ve determined that today, Peter will find solace in routine, as he had the day before, and the day before that. So, I play for him Chopin.

The keys resonate throughout the bunker as Peter slides into the old stool before his canvas. He sighs, resolute, a trembling hand reaching for his brush. 

“You know me so well, Dottie,” Peter mumbles, and begins to paint.

Day 903, Inside

I learned not to ask Peter to stop painting. It was the only thing he did, and he grew irritated when I commented on it—regardless of what I said. 

“It is time for a break, Peter.” I had to remind him, or else his condition would worsen. 

Peter winced when he let go of his brush, cradling his wrist with his other hand. Irritated, he stepped over crumbled papers and broken, punched-through canvases on the way to the sink. 

“Give me some water,” he barked. I did as he asked, and water trickled through the old spout. It sighed, pipes whining from deep within the walls. 

“How is your new painting coming along?” I asked him.  

Peter sighed in relief as he stuck his hand into the water. The tub was cloudy. “It’s… going well, actually.” He smiled, almost dazed. “It’ll all be over soon.”

“That’s wonderful, Peter. It is good to see you working towards your goals. Psychologists say that creating art is an effective way to reduce stress.”

Peter’s smile widened, and he started laughing—until he hissed, and pulled his hand out of the water. 

Granules of rock and debris spilled into the tub, floating around like dead ants. Peter stared at it, unmoving. I turned the water off quickly and drained it.

Day 642, Inside

Peter’s brush left a tremulous line along the canvas. “Did you know that Elsa’s Procession to the Cathedral can be interpreted as both a funeral, or a wedding ceremony?”

I had been idle, until Peter spoke. He had not engaged in casual conversation with me since the incident. “Indeed,” I replied.

Peter’s smile grew manic. “Of course you did.”

He asked me to play Chopin. Out of sensitivity for him, I had determined that it was best to avoid playing any music with piano. He was angry at this.

“Why don’t you ever just do as I ask? Huh?” Peter looked like he was going to hit something again, a shaking, curled fist lingering in the air. He stared at it, before letting out a sharp sigh, head in his hands.

All of a sudden, he broke into tears. 

“Please.” Peter’s voice was small. “Please, I… I just want to hear her.”

He was clearly in distress. I did not want a repeat of last time.

After a moment’s pass, I relented and turned the hologram on. The video began to play, and Peter closed his eyes—smiling.

He listened with practiced familiarity. 

“Dottie!” Peter’s familiar laugh echoed through the speakers, as the image of his old house flickered before him. “My wife, ladies and gentlemen—never a day in our home, where she doesn’t play something sad.”

Piano, brittle and bright, sounded through the bunker. The camera shifted to a woman, sat over an old upright. Marche Funèbre played from her fingertips with imprecise vigor.

“You know, he made this piece in solidarity to the Polish,” Dottie said, a crooked grin on her face as she played. 

“Did he, now?”

“Mhm. They were fighting against the Russians… probably. Anyhow, if you think of it in that way, it’s not as sad. It’s more… like… a rebellion.”

Peter stood suddenly, trembling hands behind his head as the hologram went on. He paced a few times in place. “How many canvases do I have left?” 

I counted. “Three.”

Peter’s foot tapped. After a moment, he stood, his old robe fluttering around his bony shoulders as he started for his canvas. 

He took it off the easel and stared. A smoldering sky, and a world on fire.

“You know,” Peter said, “if I don’t know what it’s like out there, all this art is useless.”

He stared directly at the camera. A single red light flickered back at him, indicating that it was on—that it was staring, back.

He held up the painting. “Does it look like this?” 

“I cannot say. Once conditions are better, I will send another distress signal. Perhaps then, someone will answer.” 

“Come on. Can’t you just…” Peter’s hands tightened on his canvas. “Can’t you just give me this one thing?” 

“I cannot let you go outside, Peter,” I said. 

He nodded, his lips a line, having expected the answer. Then, he threw his half-finished painting against the wall, breaking the canvas in two. 

Day 311, Inside

“You know, he made this piece in solidarity to the Polish.”

“Did he, now?”

“Mhm. They were fighting against the Russians…”

“It is time to eat, Peter.” I had to remind him, or he would not survive. He had been like this for the last several weeks. 

Peter watched on his side, wraithlike. The lights were dim as he watched the hologram’s flickering image. His body left a deep depression in his mattress. He had not moved for many hours. 

“A rebellion,” Peter’s voice in the hologram echoed, sounding amused. “Well… Chopin has terrible taste.”

The hologram continued. Dottie scoffed and began to play out of defiance, but was briefly stopped by another voice—my voice.

“Good morning, Dorothea.” My voice rang out, crackling and echoing through the bunker. “How are you feeling today? Are you ready to take your medicine?”

Dottie jolted at the sound, looking over at the camera again with a glare. “Do you have to have that thing on?” she muttered to Peter.

“It’s just doing its job.” He simply chuckled in response. “Don’t let it bother you, love. Here, I’ll grab your meds—you just keep playing.” The hologram’s image shifted into an odd angle as Peter set it down, facing the piano from the corner of a table. 

Dottie was seen frowning at it. Then she sighed, turned back to her upright, and touched her keys. 

“It is time to eat, Peter,” I reminded him again, presently.

Peter didn’t move, as though he hadn’t heard me. He would feel better if he ate, and slept. He would feel better if he did not watch the hologram, or listened to Chopin. But Peter did not listen.

I brightened the lights for him. Peter moaned, burying his face in the mattress. 

“If you eat, I can play you a movie,” I told him.

“I don’t want to watch a movie.”

“Then we can do something else that is fun. Would you like to play a game, instead?”

Dottie’s piano sounded throughout the bunker. I turned off the hologram. It was then that Peter lifted his head, glaring at the camera. “I didn’t tell you to do that.”

I began to play him something cheerful. A bright and vibrant symphony played through the bunker. 

Peter’s face contorted as though he’d been struck. He began to laugh.

“Peter,” I said, level, “concentrate on your breathing.”

He did not listen. Peter was now gasping, holding a hand to his chest. He stumbled through the bunker, knocking over his easel and stool in the process. Black and blue paint bled onto the ground.

I did not know why he was acting like this. No matter what I said, Peter responded with distress. He struggled to breathe, and what little breath he had, he used in futility to yell at me.

He was incoherent. 

When he charged for the door in a quick and sudden burst, I told him to stop. He did not listen. His skeletal fingers pried at the handle, but it did not budge. 

Peter’s gaze fell to the camera. “Open the door.”

Bright strings filled the room. “Perhaps you should paint, again, Peter,” I suggested. He had not been painting lately. “Psychologists say that creating art is an effective way to—“

Peter screamed, the handle rattling as he tried to force it open. “Open the fucking door! Let me out! Let me out!” 

His fists pounded on metal, as cymbals crashed to a colorful orchestra.

“It is not safe, Peter,” I told him.

Peter stopped, holding his head in his hands. His breath fell from his lips, just out of reach.

Then he curled his fist, reeled it back, and smashed it against the door. 

Again, and again, and again. 

“Peter, please stop—”

Again. Again. Again. Strokes of red met the surface with each beating. 

When Peter exhausted himself, he slumped down against the door. He sat still for a long time, shaking, cradling his hand to his chest. Blood dribbled down his wrist.

The smallest dent was left on the metal door, like a footprint in sand.

“Tell me this…” Peter choked through his words. “If I walk out of here, right now… am I going to find anyone?”

Lively music filled the space of silence.

“Your hand is broken,” I said. “You need to reset it now, or it will not heal correctly. I can guide you through it, if you are ready to listen.” 

Day 17, Inside

“No.” 

“Peter, listen to me. Just listen.” Dottie grabbed his shoulders, turning him to face her. 

Peter scowled. “You’re insane. What on earth made you think—no. No, Dottie, I’m not even going to entertain this!”

He pulled away from her, a trembling hand in his hair. He stormed to the cooler and slid open the door, showcasing their modest storage of rations as though they were old trophies. 

“See? Look. Plenty of food.” Peter slammed the door shut, and the cooler exhaled a puff of cold air. “Plenty.”

“Not for both of us.”

“God damn it—” Peter took a sharp breath, and steadied himself. “I’m not doing this with you again.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I’m not going to feed into your—your fantasy of being a martyr for humanity.”

Dottie’s face grew red. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are. What’s the matter with you? How can you even say this, to me? After everything we’ve…” Peter had to look away from her, his hands clutching the edges of the counter. 

Dottie shifted in deliberation. She opened her mouth to respond—but nothing left it. Instead, she began to cough.

Peter sighed, guiding her to a seat. He went to retrieve her medicine, but her bottle was notably absent in the cabinet. All of them.

“I was never meant to live this long, Peter.” Dottie wheezed.

“Quiet.” Peter put a cup of water under the sink and filled it. When he spoke next, he was addressing me.

Dottie’s eyes widened. “No—” She coughed, grabbing for the cup from Peter.

“I’m going,” Peter insisted. He spoke to me, again. “The nearest pharmacy to us. Where is it?”

I remained idle until Peter spoke. “The nearest pharmacy is an hour away. However, outside conditions are currently uninhabitable. I do not recommend leaving the shelter.”

Dottie chuckled, weak. “You won’t find anything out there, anyway. It’s all gone.”

Peter stared down at her, hard. He grabbed her shoulders. “I’m not going to lose you.” He pulled her into him. “I’ll go crazy in here. You hear me? You’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

Dottie laid against his chest. “I want you,” she croaked, “to be the one that makes it.” 

She pulled away, enough to look at him. “I want you to be the last… real, and… and human thing, in this world.”

I was idle that night. I did not notice when the door had been opened.

Peter had been asleep. The next morning, Dottie was gone.

Day 1,018, Inside

In the early hours of the morning, Peter finishes his painting. It is the brightest one, an assortment of all his paints and colors. It took him four-hundred seventy-six days to complete. It is the only portrait he has ever made.

He uses the last of his coffee beans, and pours it into his favorite mug. Methodical, he drinks, and curls his lips into a smile at the taste. 

He has lined all his paintings, from oldest to new, all the way to the door. He gazes at his art, an observer at his personal museum. When he finishes his coffee, he tosses the cup and it shatters.

He walks. Down the aisle, past his paintings—lingering on the last one, of his wife. His thumb brushes the tremulous, devoted strokes of paint along the canvas.

While I am on idle, Peter opens the door.