How I hate Covid-19

I am Amber Cassidy. I am 25 years old and I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am also frequently visited by nightmares. Of the worldwide pandemic. I was 6 when it happened, so 19 years ago, and it still haunts me. It haunts me when I design living rooms and bathrooms and everything in between. When I see anything that reminds me of Covid-19, a bag of chips I might have eaten, a book I read, a tv show I watched, all those painful and gut-wrenching memories bombard my brain like a tsunami and its aftershocks. You can't stop it, but you hate it when it happens. Hate it and yourself. You want to get a knife and stab yourself with it endlessly until there is no more blood left in you to keep bleeding. 

"Amber!" I heard a gruff voice yell. I opened my eyes to see Javier. He had grown a small beard over the winter, and his black eyes were even more piercing in the office fluorescents.

"Got it," I cut him off. I got up off the couch and sat back on my chair. I rubbed my eyes and tried to relax before going back to work. Javier shook his perfectly tanned body and left. I took a deep breath in and started browsing furniture. I could feel my breathing getting heavy and I could hear my heart beating loudly from a mile away. The light blue couch on the screen made me nauseous and my skin felt as if it was crawling with a thousand insects.

"Oh no," I felt my body collapse onto the ground and the new nightmare begins. 

I was in the dark. Just me and the dark. I started taking steps forward, to realize I was barefoot and stepping on water. I kept walking, unbothered by my foot situation. I saw a mirror appear in front of me. I stepped to face to face with my 6-year-old self. She had a mask and gloves and was wearing black. I had red cheeks and tears welling in my eyes. I dropped to the ground to be closer to myself. Knowing what young me was feeling, I tried to hug myself. But the mirror pushed me back. The black environment turned into my old bedroom. The pink walls were torn down and the bed was on the floor, with no blanket or pillow. The toys and dolls are broken or painted on. I was in my old clothes and I opened the door. I walked through the short hallway to find my grandpa. I heard coughing through the door and I tried to open it.

"Now, now Amber, don't you open that door," his raspy voice was soothing, even tho his words were cautionary.

"But grandma...."

"Grandma is sick," he explained.

"But if she's sick we need to help her," I heard the tears strain my voice. I started hitting the door with my hands as if I could break it.

"She has a very transmittable virus called Corona. You don't want the rest of us sick do you?" I shook my head. How could he even imply that? My grandpa put his arms around me and pulled me back from the door.

"She's dying!" I yelled. I had been crying so much that my dress was wet. I tried to break free, but my grandpa's grip was strong. I took deep breaths in and elbowed my grandpa. I jumped up, not caring whether I hurt the devil, and ran into my grandma's room. She was in her bed, the color on her face fading. Her eyes were closing slowly and I raced to stop her from falling asleep.

"Granny?" I squeaked. I felt my heart hurt like it was being squeezed by a tiger. I put my hand on hers and waited for her to say something.

"She died." I heard my mom's voice say, monotone. 

"Why didn't you do anything?" My mom smiled that 60s housewife smile.

"Oh silly," her voice was cute now, "we didn't want to." She did her best to sugarcoat, but even I knew she hated my grandma. The colors and people faded until I realized I was the little girl I saw in the mirror. 

"On this day, we are saying goodbye to DeDe Meredith Rowe. She was a stupid woman. Never took her husband's last name. Always gave money to the poor. She was a terrible wife, mother, and grandmother." The priest wasn't wearing a mask. Instead, a teeth-grinding smile. I could hear myself saying 'no' after every bad thing they said about Grandma, "may Satan torture her for eternity." I knew this was not what happened at the real funeral, but it was just as bad. Everyone was wearing white, to show they weren't being respectful. I started moving, pushing through the crowd to get to the coffin.

"Grandma!" I yelled. Even more, tears came out of my eyes. I felt my body get lighter and everything was gone. I opened my eyes and all of my coworkers were gathered around me.

"We heard the screams," Jessica said. "Are you alright?" I nodded and left the office running. I grabbed a random jacket and pushed through the double doors. I got a cab and told the driver where I was going. He sped through traffic as if the speed limit was a suggestion. We were at the cemetery in 10 to 20 minutes. I threw cash at him and started sprinting through the streets. The fence was dark and the grey clouds were coming to the city. I looked over the tombstones. My heart started aching and I tried to find my grandma's grave. I noticed it and slumped over to it. I saw her name on the stone. 'Dede Meredith Rowe. Loving Daughter, Mother, and Sister' but it didn't say anything about the wonderous grandmother she was. I punched my hand into the ground, hating myself and the terrible thing Covid was.