Escapism in the Face of Demise

TW: Nuclear war setting, depression, alcoholism

Morgan’s brain pounded against her skull, an au-natural morning alarm gifted to her by the bottle of vodka that now sat empty beside her bed. She winced as she pushed herself into a sitting position, letting the covers fall back from her shoulders and pool around her waist. No thoughts existed to cloud her judgement or foster the depression she drank to deal with. Instead, her head was blissfully painful, throbbing just enough to block out anything and everything else. She leaned over and retched off the side of her bed into a conveniently placed trash can. Then she laid back down, and let the darkness of mental exhaustion pull her under once again.

No one came to check on Morgan throughout that day. No one had come for the past week, and likely wouldn’t again for another long bout of time. The world was falling apart outside of her cabin where she hid - or at least it was the last time she had been cognizant enough to put on the radio. Nuclear war had been announced, the ever-present WWIII threat finally coming to fruition. It was only a matter of time until one of the bombs would leak towards her, frying her from the inside out with its noxious blast. She had never been a particularly social girl, but with the end of the world looming, all that was left to do was wait. She didn’t know where to find safety bunkers, and she didn’t know how to survive in the world without electricity and plumbing and her stash of heated blankets. Honestly, it would have been a blessing if the alcohol would just take her out now. So far though, she had only managed to escape her body for a day at a time, usually waking up tucked back in her bed in the morning. Drunk Morgan cared about herself substantially more than sober Morgan did it seemed. So when she awoke once more, she stumbled back towards the pantry to invite her savior back.

The cabin Morgan had commandeered had been in her family for as long as she could remember. It was an old fishing spot where her dad would stay with her uncles for a week every fall to chase salmon and reminisce about their childhoods. It hadn’t been kept in the best of shape over the years, but the men had always kept a wall-to-wall stock of their favorite liquors to be enjoyed during those weeks. She still had a decent amount of food as well, and one of the many benefits to waking up every morning violently hungover was that breakfast rarely sounded appetizing, so it was lasting her longer than her meager provisions had any right to. She ignored the cans of soup and beans again today, opening the cabinet door to play eenie-meanie-minie-mo between a handle of golden rum and another two 750 ml bottles of flavored vodka. These ones were labeled “strawberry” and “whipped cream.” That second one sounded especially horrendous. She picked them both off the shelf and swung the door closed behind her. Maybe she could manifest that drinking the dessert-flavored poison was in honor of some celebration, like the world finally ending around her.

She stumbled back towards her bedroom, cracking open the sealed top and taking a long swig from the first bottle. A shiver raced through her body as her insides screamed at her to pause and at least mix the alcohol with something to disguise its high ABV. She glared down at her exposed stomach, and took another swig to spite herself. After days without human contact, clothes had begun to seem meaningless. They were just more things that would be ruined when her bladder inevitably broke once more - the cabin did not have anything as modern as laundry inside of it.

She could go and wash everything in the river if she really wanted to, but she had no desire to die in the middle of chores. On the rare occasions she desired a bath herself, she had gotten into a habit of throwing on her grossest articles and wearing them into the water instead. She would emerge with one less layer of grime and so would they, and that was plenty fine enough for her.

Sitting on the floor beside her bed, beside the puke bucket that wafted scents of yesterday towards her, Morgan grabbed the edge of her single suitcase and flung it open. She kept everything she needed right here within arm’s reach of her favorite floor spot. She took out her old sketchbook, the paper within it dwindling more every day, and ripped out half a sheet. Her vision was cloudy - she had certainly meant to grab the whole sheet - but she shrugged at the torn piece in her hand and dropped it to the ground in front of her. At least it meant she would get one extra session out of the pack. Then she grabbed paints from beside her, letting her muscle memory pick up whichever two bottles her hand most naturally gravitated towards. Today would be green and red, perfect for her fake celebration as well as the murky weather that defined the day through her window. While Morgan no longer knew the exact date, she knew it was still the early months of winter by the leaves that were just finishing their graceful fall to the ground. The air had finally decided to crisp up in the mornings as well, which she noted by the growing prominence of gooseflesh across her bare body. She reached behind herself and pulled the comforter off the bed, gathering it around her extremities and taking another swig of alcohol to warm her insides. Then, she began to paint.

When Morgan had left her Kentucky apartment, her paints had been the first thing she packed. They had, for the longest time, been the only way of turning off her overactive brain. When she fiddled with the thick colorful acrylics, she could lose hours at a time. Oftentimes, she had put on music in the background and let herself be inspired by the rhythms and words that emanated from the music instead of trying to construct reason and thought in her art herself. She had considered it her form of self-care. Now, she dipped her fingers straight into the bottles until they dripped globs of paint onto her leg and the paper simultaneously. She smeared the color with her palm and then her toe, letting the red and green mix on the quickly-curling paper into a variety of grayish-browns. The art was that of a kindergartener, but it allowed her to pass the minutes while this next round of alcohol made its home inside of her. Minute by minute her thoughts once again ceased to exist. Hours passed. Just as the sun began to set, she felt herself pitch forward and faceplant into the gooey paper and floor. Half-dried paint caked her face and hair, but she barely registered it. She fell asleep and ended yet another day.

Waking up the next morning was especially rough. Her legs were still crossed from how she had been sitting on the floor, so both of her feet had gone completely numb. The paint was so thick over her left eye that she couldn’t open it, and she could taste flakes of it that had made their way into her mouth during the night. She leaned back against the bed and breathed for several minutes, trying to orient herself enough to stand. She couldn’t remember the last day she had eaten, and decided that this would be as good a day as any to waste more of her stock. She limped towards the kitchen, bracing her failing body on whatever railings and walls she passed as she did.

She did not expect to enter the kitchen and see another human being rifling through her pantry. Morgan stopped short and stared, wondering if she was hallucinating. She had decided she almost certainly was when the human turned and met her eye. Then, he screamed.

The sound shook Morgan to her bones, and she doubled over to shield her ears from the screech. It had been so long since she had heard anything besides the gentle noises of the woods that she couldn’t tell if the sound was something that was even meant to emerge from human lips. Anything would have sounded foreign, but that sound had a primal nature to it that embedded in her bones. She closed her remaining eye and dropped to rock back and forth on the floor, trying to escape from whatever being was in front of her.

Then, she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was followed by soft words: an apology from the intruder. She couldn’t make out most of the specifics of what he said, only the gist of it all. The man had come from a government safehouse looking for supplies and survivors in the area. Apparently one of the bombs had been dropped a state away, and she was just barely outside of the radius of infection. He tried to take Morgan’s hand, to pull her to her feet, but she couldn’t force herself to help him help her. All she could think about was how close she had been to finally being released from this hell.

When the man realized that she wasn’t in complete control of her body, he gently wrapped an arm behind her back and cradled her in his arms. If she had still been fully present in her head, Morgan might have rejected the help and run to the bedroom to at least throw a t-shirt on over her naked body. Instead, she let her head fall against his chest and let her rescuer do as he pleased. She hoped he was one of the good ones, but she didn’t have the strength to fight back even if he wasn’t. He carried her towards the river first, likely having spied it on his way inside the cabin. He helped the water wash away her latest paint fiasco, running his fingers gently through Morgan’s hair to undo at least some of the rats' nest that it had become. His hands roamed across her body, brushing and scrubbing his skin against hers to unearth the human buried underneath all of the dirt. Morgan’s sanity returned to her slowly, still blocked in part by the raging hangover of her body detoxing. It wasn’t much, but she whispered the words “thank you” under her breath. The man looked at her, finally able to meet both of her eyes, and gave her the tiniest, pained smile.

Morgan still couldn’t walk by the time they left the water. The man tried to place her on her feet and she lasted mere seconds before crumpling back to the ground in front of him.

“Can we make and share some of the food from your cabin?” He asked quietly, now aware of her extremely sensitive hearing. Morgan nodded shakily. He picked her back up, clutching her against him once more, and they made their way back.

Rain had begun to drizzle around them, and it was cold enough outside that it was half water and half snowy slush. Before the war, it would have been the perfect day to share warm food inside a cozy cabin. Now, with the scents of puke and excrement invading every corner of the house, the pair simply put their heads down and focused on nourishing their bodies in what little way they could. The man started talking again, saying something about the safehouse and leaving the cabin together. Morgan looked at him with defeat in her eyes, and shook her head. It wasn’t worth it. Her life wasn’t worth it. He placed his hand over hers and said that even if that was the case, he would never be able to live with himself if he left her here. Plus, the provisions she had managed to keep would be a huge help for everyone gathered there. She nodded along, not wanting to fight or think. If he was going to drag her away from this, she would let him.

If he had the power within him to save her, then she would let herself be saved. She knew it wasn’t much to offer, but a small part of her hoped it would be enough.