Man from the moon (UNDER EDITING)

Journal004/A Few Last Words.

I was wrong; The planet isn't dying. It's being killed — and worse — the people who have murdered it have died too.

2 years. Since I last wrote in this wrinkled journal. A pleasant surprise when I found it in the ragged backpack I was using. The thick spine of it still held together like it was weaved out of spider silk.

I'm 18 now. Fully fleshed-out adult — not that it mattered — lately. I'd never get to apply for a driver's license or drink with a buddy in 3 years, or go to college, or do a lot.

But I was an adult. On the upside, maybe, Dad, you never missed my prom. Not at all, I never had one, or my first boyfriend, or kiss, or romance, it was all scraped into a barrel and drifted off with the seafoam Aphrodite was born from. Never to touch my hatchling toes, no, I had dug them into glassed sand.

That's the good news. I'm still alive. Kicking in rotted skulls and building rudimentary machines in hopes of seeing your face one last time.

The satellites have yet to fall, and as such, I doubt data centers have either; Maybe just one more picture.

The mountain ridge where our house lay is in shambles like an angry fist had pummeled dried clay into shards.

All I could see was your smile as I stared at the night stars—which was rare—smoke had painted the world gray.

I've even heard tales of verdant fire bursting out of the ground with long tongues eating a city alive.

Aunt Cassie died.

She'd left herself, resigned in a wide field of wheat. The dread of knowledge had maybe eaten at her too long. Or maybe some dredges of regret had flown around her like specters. Perched in the tree like ravens, or churned under her feet like worms.

I thought I'd let you know. Dad. I'd imagine you'd cry about now. I wouldn't see manly, single droplet tears, but babyish snot, hiccups, and shutting yourself underneath thick blankets.

Me. You might wonder, how did I cope? Rarely, within the fleeting reprieves I have while running from a horde of maggot-filled zombies, I cried too, like I imagined you did; at the bottom of plinths. On the pews of a church, on bone-breaking rocks and dirt, even in a meadow of flowers.

I wondered if out of all your traits, I'd inherited your empathy the most.

You were a paragon of empathy. Of what it means to be human. Now I question whether empathy mattered for people who'd trip over the same mistake they'd made prior and look up with wide eyes as if not expecting to fall.

Another time. On the rooftop of sky-scraping, clouds of dust and smoke rolled over me like a wave, thick and dark, like a log of dried oil clogging up a pipe.

It rolled over me, once, smearing my face black, and my fingertips blacker. It smelt horrible, like rotten eggs and an underground mine.

I don't miss that feeling. Rain was scant to come, I said I hated when you'd pull me out of my brooding room to dance with me in the rain at the edge of our dimly lit street. Picking me up and throwing me high, knowing that you'd always catch me before the concrete did, I said I hated it.

Now I just miss it. The rain, and moments like those.

You may wonder. Why did I leave the bunker? I didn't. As the bombings grew closer, and the hordes of ghouls lurched forward, and the government fell, and the world shook, and the waves rose and flooded — people stopped caring — what care would you have for food, or a paycheck, when you were to die.

The guards you hired never ran. They simply stopped escorting me on these silent excursions through the garden — then beyond the great brick wall — Into the foreign lands that'd been ravaged by hunger.

After one certain excursion, it was in flames. Turned out that my rebellious nature had saved me from dying.

I've heard of a large ship — called the Ark — They said they have an island. Big enough for all of us, food, shelter, the last bastion of humanity, untouched by the pandemonium.

It's far, but we're trying to get there.

Oh yeah, I've made a few friends — A nice older man, Simon, and a little girl. Marceline. I think I'll give her this jacket one day. P.S she really loves French fries.

Dad. I wonder what you'd make of this. I wonder, even more, where you were, how you were. Have you found what you were searching for? Have you heard the news? Are you praying for my safety? Are you alive?

"Maxine! We have to go—... What's that?" I wrote his words.

"A diary. Give me two minutes. If you can."

He stood silent. His cheeks were cooling into blue like they were freezing from inside out, his glasses foggy as he nodded. "Okay."

I smiled. "Thank you."

I heard the floorboards creak beneath his feet. The wind whistled through the trees around our makeshift outpost.

Dad. I often wonder about death; This wave of overwhelming dread — this wave of not being able to understand — it froze my heart like ice had been pumped into it — I was terrified — I still am.

Dad. I hope death isn't the end. I really do.

But it might be, and it's grinding at my soul like a maelstrom. Or like a strange sea, pushing me beneath it with frigid hands.

"Maxine!" He shouted.

I have to go. Goodbye, Love. Now, Big wizard, Max.

I WONDERED WHETHER I REALLY EXISTED. NOTHING THAT LOVED ME, AND NOTHING THAT I LOVED WAS HERE ANYMORE. LIFE FELT SO WEIGHTLESS. I WAS LIVING TO DIE.

We inched closer to the moorage where large vessels hopefully waited like cradles. Bringing with us a young child.

Her eyes were heavy. Deep and sad. They weren't full of bright things, instead, they had ash and soot had settled in them, remnants of ballistic missiles. Blocking out any of the stars that would've been born.

Trauma. What a magical thing.

I wondered what the plush she'd carried was. Sometimes I find myself drawn to it when I am bored. But I won't say anything.

In the mirror, I touched my face. Soot settled on my long lashes, and my lips were dried, resembling raisins. Long strands of hair fell over my forehead like weeds overgrowing a yard, matte with grime and sweat.

My cheeks were gaunt and slim. Like the clothes I wore, tightly sticking to the bone beneath them.

They felt weak as I pulled them into a smile. Then — I slowly put the mirror into my bag — Until I heard a voice.

"What's that?" It was soft but hoarse. I knew the voice, the child, Marcy.

I turned my neck. My spine popped, nearly letting a moan slither out of my mouth. I stared at her, pulling the mirror out.

"This?" I pointed. "It's a mirror."

I slowly bent to hand it off to her. "You can see yourself with it." It slid off my fingers, flowing into her tiny hands.

She gasps. A cute noise. "Pretty."

I turned around. Sorting through what I had left. My wrist was starting to hurt like it was being put in a meat grinder, chopped, and diced as I wrote these letters.

Simon went out — scavenging for food — I offered to go. He refused. Urging me to stay here with Marceline.

I turned around every few moments to check and see she hadn't wandered off somewhere too far — Right! Where were we staying? Once the world's largest dam — Bingo!-- Hoover Dam. We are on our way to California.

I'll write to you later. It would be a lie to say I didn't see the world through a glass of caustic musk, because not even an optimist could see it otherwise.

I still think about you. Hoping that you too, touch the windows on your ship, thinking of me in the reflection as I do with this mirror.

Goodbye, Dad. I'll see you later.