The Budding Daffodil

“...Three people found dead in the subway station. According to witnesses and surveillance cameras, the three men suddenly collapsed on the platform. Detailed autopsies have shown that these men were perfectly healthy and showed no signs of previous health issues…”

 “…somehow people just drop dead without any warnings or symptoms. Car accidents, power outages, buses crash into buildings happen on a daily basis now. People are told to remain inside their homes…”

“…people are just dying out of nowhere. What now? Planes will drop from the sky? This is dangerous! People, stay home…”

“…200 or more people in the U.S. are victims to this asymptomatic disease…”

 “...China reported 2543 cases, South Korea 354 cases, U.K. 703 cases,…”

….

“Pack your bags, we’re leaving.”

Thump. Dad drops his bag to the floor. Dust jumps up, darkening the air with its presence. The room emits a dry scent of unused space. She fidgets with the strap of her bag, looks around while trying to comprehend the fact that this storage room is where they’ll stay for who knows when. Her stomach feels like it’s on a roller coaster. She bits her bottom lip, fingers untangling the knots and lose strands of her hair. Her foot scratches the floor. On her left is a wooden table placed against the wall, accompanied by a small lamp. Located at the table’s legs are seven or so portable water tanks. Three storage racks, which stand opposite the wooden island, are stocked to the brim with Spam, canned baked beans, green beans, chicken soup, ravioli, everything canned. Just as she’s about to examine her new food source, a loud clang catches her attention to the bottom right corner. Turns out it’s just an axe, landed on top of a pile of tools: a wrench, a rusty saw, and a screwdriver. Not far from there, books stacked on books like bricks, boxes on boxes like building blocks. 

Dad places his radio on a stool.

“I’ve stocked some food and water. We’ll be okay in here,” he pulls two cots out to the open space.

She winces at the cots’ screech.

“When will we get out?” her nails blister the weighing strap on her shoulder.

“Until everything dies down a bit.”

She humphs angrily and searches for something to eat.

Light filtering through the exhaust fan casts grey broken shadows on the ground, which fade as the sun goes down. The ravioli tastes like water in her mouth, the container cold in her palm. The buzz from the radio and the constant spinning of the fan provide a much needed filler for the awkward silence. She looks up to find Dad staring at her.

“What, Dad?” she asks, shoulders tense.

“Nothing. It’s just… you’re a little quiet today.”

She glares at him, then focuses her gaze back to the ravioli, hand absentmindedly stirring. The same clanking sound can be heard on his end.

“I know this is all too sudden, but this pandemic is sudden for all of us. With the uncertainty still surrounding this disease, we can’t be too careful. This is the safest place. I hope you’ll understand that.”

Silence. Dad sighs then turns to look at the table.

“Have I ever told you I wanted to become a writer?”

“No.” she eats the tasteless ravioli.

“Gosh,” he stares aimlessly, eyes shine with memories. “It has been long.” he pauses. “When I was a middle-schooler, I would spend my days wandering the neighborhood and writing poems and stories. That was fun.” he smiles. “But your grandparents didn’t think them any good, ‘You can’t make money writing’, they said. I believed them, so I stopped. Then one day, I had to write a short story for Literature. My teacher, Mrs. Gardner, asked me to meet her after class. I was nervous. I walked up to her and she told me that she loved my story, that I had potential. She encouraged me to pursue a writing career. She was the first and only person who has ever said that to me, besides myself, of course.” he chuckles.

“Then why didn’t you pursue it?”

“Because I found out that stories can’t provide a house, or stable income, or a ring for your mother. So after marrying her, I knew writing will just have to be a hobby. But turns out, I don’t like my job. I hate it.”

He walks toward the table and picks up a pencil.

“I want to start again, I want to give it my all this time.” he smiles gently, gripping the pencil.

He strides back to her, holds her face in his hands.

“I want to live. I want to live to follow my dream and I want you to live so you can fulfill yours. Both of us have to live to witness our future. So please don’t be mad at me for taking us here. I couldn’t protect your mother but at least I can for you.” he chokes on his words.

“Ok Dad,” she sighs, her shoulders slope.

Dad sits back down and enjoys his ravioli.

“And for the record, I’m not mad at you,” she scratches the back of her head, “I’m just scared”.

“We all are. But we’re together and we’re still alive. Let’s eat to that,” he raises his can.

On the radio, announcement of canceled events echoes across the room.

“…because of the ongoing pandemic, the Easter Gatherings this year have been canceled”.

“Easter? This year’s Easter is,” Dad scratches his chin. “-the 12^th of April! Today’s your birthday!” he exclaims. “Happy 17^th Birthday, kiddo. Sorry I forgot, this pandemic and all that’s happened today, ya know.”

“It’s ok, Dad. Happy birthday to me,” she raises her can with a tired smile.

“As the world is in such a predicament, we must not lose hope,” The radio buzzes on. “We must persevere. Please adhere to your area’s guideline regarding self-isolation and don’t go outside unless absolutely necessary. Dark times are here and we must prepare ourselves. You will be informed daily about the pandemic. And now, for our first week of lockdown, please enjoy 'Here comes the sun' by The Beatles. And remember, don’t lose hope.”

The song starts. The fluorescent light above them blinks. 

“The number of death from this disease keep increasing, people’ve been storing supplies and preparing themselves for lockdown. Government officials are trying their best to find ways to deal with this peculiar and deadly disease. There are now 4504 people reported dead in the U.S., 6078 in China, 2313 in South Korea, 1206 in U.K., …”

The rustling of papers, the scratching of pencil, the bouncing of basketball around the room fade out the morbid report. Today’s their second day here. Dad busies himself with his new project, she has nothing else to do. If it was any normal day, she would be hanging out with friends, or scrolling through her phone. But this is no normal time and this storage room doesn’t have WiFi.

“Sorry, kiddo, but can you please quiet down a bit?” he says without looking back at her.

With a roll of her eyes, she drops the ball. There’s got to be something more interesting in this room. Hands rummaging through boxes. Some old newspapers, sheets of paper, and photos… Other boxes contain chalks and paint. Boring. She decides to run laps around the room.

“Don’t exercise or you’ll sweat. Remember, we can’t take showers here.”

“Then why did we even leave our house in the first place?” she raises her voice. “It has proper food, wifi, and showers!”.

“I know,” Dad turns around. “But there’s too many people and we don’t know anything about this disease. Is it a virus? Is it in the water? Is it in the air? We don’t know, so the further we are from everything the better.” With that, he resumes his work.

She picks up the basketball and uses all her force to bounce it as hard as she can on the ground.

They have baked beans for dinner. A new channel blares on the radio.

“Hello ladies and gentlemen, B.H. here with today’s hot topics: Could this disease be the government’s solution to overpopulation? Man claims to have found a cure? Are the true numbers of death concealed by the government? Anything could happen. Before we jump in, I have Diane Rogers here with me today. Hello Diane.”

“Hello,” a shy voice.

“Can you tell me a bit about your neighborhood current situation so far?”

“Uhm,” Diane’s voice shakes. “The neighborhood, I mean, my neighborhood is currently under lockdown. Everything is chaotic, and, and,…I’m sorry,” they can hear her crying now, “-my husband and son died two days ago, it all happened so fast. I didn’t even get to see them for the last time. I …” she chokes and sniffs loudly. “Why hasn’t the government done anything? Are they going to let people die like this?” she yells.

“Ma’am…”

“I want to see my family, you people didn’t even,” she chokes. “-you people didn’t even let me say goodbye. I …”

“That’s enough for today,” Dad turns the radio off.

As they’re eating, she thinks perhaps she should start reading those books tomorrow, and maybe some sketching. This place do need some color.

“The global economy is increasingly grim. Every business is directly or indirectly affected by this pandemic…”

“We must not lose hope. We must persevere…”

“B.H. here with your latest conspiracy theories…”

“The death toll keeps increasing. We have 6645 death in the U.S., 8450 in China, 2540 in Germany, 5643 in Brazil, …”

“We’re already in June, yet still no answers from the officials. Where are you?”

“Well, there you have it, ladies and gents, arm yourselves. Burglars, robbers are in your area!”

“15^th of August marks a sad day for all of us. The worldwide death toll has surpassed 100,000 within 4 months....”

“…9857 death in China, 6493 in the U.S., 5430 in Australia,….’

“We’re all gonna die!”

The exhaust fan stilled. The basketball on the floor. Empty tins and cans strewn across the room. Mountains of thrown away ideas. Weak sunlight. Waltzing dust. Endless ramble from the radio. Lamp on the floor. Pencils buried under scraps of their own skin. Flies buzz. Dad’s dead body. Bloodied screwdriver. Overthrown boxes. Knock-overed books. Dad’s dead body. “I want to leave. I want to live.” Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. “Be quiet! Stay away from the door!” “Give me the password, Dad! Is it my birthday? Is it mom’s?”. Axe clanks. “If you don’t stop right now, I’ll chop your legs off!”

“Dad, STOP!” hands grabbed the screwdriver and stabbed.

Wide-eyed. Blood-soaked shirt. Hole in the heart. Messy head landed on the floor. Thud.

Hands trembling, holding the tool. Eyes wide. Lips quivering.

It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to see. She staggers her way to the color-filled wall. Shakingly stacks books and boxes until her face is hidden. Hugging her quaking knees. Breath draws short. She didn’t mean to kill him. He had attacked her. She just wanted them to leave this place.

She doesn’t want to be here. She’s spent her days reading and drawing, rereading and redrawing. Every word ingrained in her mind. Every stroke etched on her muscles. The stories she’s imagined, building worlds after worlds. Her feet yearn for an outstretched road, her eyes the vast sky, her hands the texture of soft bed and warm blankets, her nose the smell of the basketball court, of her room, of food readied to be eaten. Her chest heaves up and down, tracking the thunderous beating of her heart, wanting to burst out of this cage made of flesh. She wants to go outside. She wants to live, to experience emotions she thought only exists in books. She wants to explore. She finds no purpose or meaning hiding away in this room, watching her Dad slowly decayed.

Flies buzz. Rising from her safe place, she approaches the corpse, which is now feast for insects. Blood oozes out of him. His greasy hair half-covered his eyes and forehead. Red drops of tomato sauce still cling to his five o’clock shadow. She barely recognizes him anymore.

Her stomach rumbles. She tries not to eat that night. Her Dad had eaten most of the food and drained half the water. Most days, she woke up to the sound of tin cans thrown to the ground, and the slurping and munching of her Dad.

“B.H. here, crisis are everywhere, people! Arm yourselves! The death toll is higher than ever before…”

Maybe people should just hold their loved ones in their arms. You’ll never know who’s going to die tomorrow, or the next three minutes, or this very second.

She faces away from the corpse.

“The government is hiding crucial information from us. I, personally, am disgusted with…”

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. What is the password? It isn’t anyone’s birthday or her parents’ anniversary. It isn’t when she got her driver’s licence. Not when he got promoted. What is it? She slams the door and sighs.

She really tries to ignore the intensity of her stomach. Staring at her Dad’s dead body with insects making themselves comfortable does resist her urge to eat. She limps like a rag doll someone forgets on a dusty cupboard. Too tired to move. A fly rests on her forehead. 

Weeks pass. A hideous odor evades every corner of the room, grasps all it can find and attaches itself like a parasite. She eats her crackers bit by bit, and drinks only a few drops of water a day.

The process of decay starts disfiguring Dad, the insects munching away his skin. Little do they know, the real process of decay started long ago, in his mind. A mind, which found out that while it put pen to paper writing about life, life was slipping away everywhere. The realization that he would be a writer in a dead world, the regret of not having started sooner, the grief of a widower, and the denial of an optimist crumbled him. So he preferred not to know what was out there and sunk himself further into his own rabbit hole of self-destruction.

She sighs. Paper-folded roses laid gently around Dad. She had learnt to make them through a book he had in one of those boxes. She reads and rereads fantasy books Dad collected, and every time wishes she could be someone else somewhere else. She cries every night, hugging her books. She curls up. Her stomach quakes.

The crisp chill and sound of fallen leaves come and go. The odor grows more intense. Black spots scatter Dad’s face and his eyes are as white as pearls. A blanket was laid on top.

Winter comes and snowflakes find their way through the exhaust fan. That night, a white flake twirls elegantly down until it lands on the tip of her finger. The contact sends a tingle through her veins. Her hands begin to resemble sticks, her face hollow and eyes protruding.

“Merry Christmas! This is our first December spent under lockdown. We must band together and spread our care and consideration to everyone. Please stay at home.”

She coughs.

“Ladies and gents, Happy New Year!!! This is our fresh dawn. So let’s celebrate by listening to an old classic: 'Happy New Year' by ABBA.”

The fluorescent light fickles. The song starts playing.

Her eyes glued to the words that Dad had been writing. The title:

If time could reverse

If time could reverse, I would want to be a more genuine partner to my wife, because for years she had been with a masked man. She, until her last moments, had never seen sparks in my eyes or leaps in my heart. If time could reverse, I would be a better role model for my daughter. I don’t want her to look up to a false person, so maybe it is a good thing that she hates me. However, time can’t reverse, and my wife can’t come back to life. But I can change and be true to myself, be a father worthy of my daughter’s love. 

She caresses the words. She wishes time would reverse so she could stop them from locking themselves here.

January, February, March, and April roll around. She’s licked the cans dry. Too weak even to walk. Dad’s body shrinks evermore. A thin layer of skin is the only thing keeping his bones from falling apart.

“Don’t lose hope. The government is trying their best. It’s been one full year since the pandemic started, we have made some noticeable progress…”

“What progress? They’re all liars!”

“We must persevere…”

Papers scatter on the floor. There’s the thank you letter she wrote for Mom, one for Dad, another is her parents’ anniversary present, which is a snow globe, and one happy birthday card Dad gave her.

Happy Birthday Chloe,

I love you very much. Follow your dreams. I’ll always be there for you.

Love,

Dad.

She presses her back against the cold floor and holds the card close to her heart, slowly letting the hunger, the thirst, and everything else weigh her eyes, maybe forever.

Quiet night. The fan spins. Ravioli in hand. Mrs. Gardner… potential … follow your dream … I love you.

Fluorescent light blinks. Eyes blink. Head turns to the boxes. Mrs. Gardner! Feet move. Arms support the frail frame. Flings out books, photos, toys,…

“The world is in crisis, we should all move to the moon!”

Chloe reaches for the radio and throws it across the room, exploding it to pieces. Her hands shake as she digs and digs until…She finds it. The Budding Daffodil written on 23^rd September.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Silence.

Green screen. And the sound of freedom.

Light bursts through the door, blinding her. With what’s left in her, with all the power she’s mustered. She shouts.

“I’M HERE!!!”