Third Rock From the Left

Feb. 18

It started today. I watched as they came down the road, the tanks, troop trucks. Some didn’t believe they’d dare come. What would be the purpose? And yet here they are. 

Feb. 20

I had planned for such an event. I pay attention to things.  It was all evident, even if you just believed what the papers said. There is a distrust of news because it has been so distorted by hope, but it only disguises the truth, not erases it. We chose not to believe because it is easier, less painful. Less painful than this? Being afraid to live because of the fear of death? Fear is worse than death because death does not allow for life. Fear is self-imposed suicide; it kills us, but only if we allow it to. Being afraid of life is far worse than being afraid of death.

Mar. 1

The shelling has begun. Living outside of town has advantages. We have a root cellar buried in the hill. It is a constant that preserves us, no matter the weather. It is, we have decided the place we will meet should the war come to us. I have stocked it with some provisions, water, canned food, lamps, oil, we can survive for a time. 

Mar. 2

My family and I have a home in town. I have warned them of the impending invasion, but they have as always dismissed my warnings, as the prophesies of a non-prophet. They believe my imagination outweighs my sense of reality. I have, regardless of their skepticism, designed a plan for when my predictions come true. We are to meet here, on what remains of our farm, when the invasion begins. I have informed them of my preparations for us all. They just smile.

Mar. 5

Plumes of smoke can be seen in the city. I am in our cellar now, waiting. I have barred the door as a precaution. It is not that I would not aid another in distress, but my allegiance lies first with my family. It is a duty I must ascribe to if we are to survive. I can see the road a few kilometers below from here on the hill. The convoy of equipment continues to move northward. I have as yet to hear from my family. My brother has sent word by way of a neighbor, friend, I assume; a scribbled note left by the door.  They have been assured of their safety if they remain loyal. I have no idea what that means. Remaining loyal to what? Invaders?

Mar. 7

I dare not go outside for any length of time. The skies are a voluminous racket, what with helicopters and the whining of shells. No one has arrived yet. There was a banging on the door early this morning, I think it was morning. I do not know the time, nor does it really matter. Morning, evening, the sky is gray, punctuated with plumes of black smoke and the glow of fire. At times it is difficult to breathe. The pounding has stopped. Someone was attempting to get in. I kept quiet; the door remained secure. No word from my family. I am beginning to worry they waited too long, and now can’t leave. The road below is deserted.

I had left instructions for the inevitable. Where to come when it starts. I left a code that would allow me to know if it was them, so I might let them in. I have a bench I sleep on. It is not comfortable, but then it is all I have. I am grateful for this place, although it is damp and the rock walls pull the heat from me. I can watch from a small hole in the door; nothing has changed. I feel the vibrations in the ground when the shelling is close. No one yet.

Mar. 10

It seems like I’ve been interred here for an eternity. I use the lamp only to write or prepare food. The fumes make it difficult to breathe. I ventured out last night. There are no lights in the city. The stars are magnificent. The smoke has cleared with the wind from the south. It is peaceful like the calm before a storm. Still no further word from anyone. I can only surmise they are trapped in the city, or are forbidden to leave. Cruelty is never mentioned as part of a war, and yet it is as deadly as the bombs that fall. The basics of life kept from you, like a hand over your mouth keeping you from breathing. It instills fear, panic, the same as bombs, intimidation that weighs on your spirit, your will to live.

Mar. 11

It is difficult to sleep. I hear screams, someone talking; I can’t be sure if I’m dreaming or awake. I’m afraid to go out at all any more. I’ve pushed my sleeping bench against the door. The small hole in the door allows only the flashes and shadows in. The vent in the ceiling to the outside, lets the air come and go. The air is different somehow, it is not the same, it smells like rot. It makes it difficult to eat, although I know I must. Perhaps I should have stayed in the city with my family. The wondering is worse than knowing. I question if they worry about me. They never seemed to care much before what I did, or how I was doing. But now? I am the one who warned them; they can’t blame me for not listening.  

Mar. 15

I was awakened by someone telling me I needed to go. Go where? I can see the road below; it is a moving line of people going somewhere. I can’t go. What if they come and I’m not here. They will wonder what has happened, how I could have abandoned them. They will certainly blame me. I keep my notes to pass the time, but also as a record in case I have to leave, or are forced to. I have a place in the wall I keep my book. My brother knows where the secret place is; third rock from the left. We’d hide our cigarettes there when we were kids. 

Mar. 16

The shelling is growing closer. Dirt falls from the ceiling now when the ground shakes. I am not sure any longer if the rocks will hold. If they don’t, then where will I go? Maybe I should go with the people on the road. They must be going somewhere. They must know where to go. No one goes somewhere, just to be going.  Do they................................................

    What is this place? Does it say?”

    “According to this map, this was the site of an internment camp in WWII. It says here this had been an old school.  They converted the basement into a prisoner of war camp. It was bombed in 1944. It says here, no one was expected to have survived.”

    “Somethings always survive. They don’t take everything, can’t, no matter the will to erase them. The spirit and memories of a place refuse to leave, they have no place else to go.”

    “What was that about leaving?…  Look here, an old metal box. Should we open it?”

    “Who are you talking to?”