Ardor

Seven: Not Quite Goners

Kobe was right. It is starting again, but this time the earthquake is gentler. I can barely feel it through the thick cement walls. I even manage to drift into a light sleep for a while and when I wake up it's gentle and gradual, not heart-stoppingly terrifying.

The room is absolutely dark. I stare up at the blank ceiling, enjoying an already rare moment of peace, despite the bone-shattering cold and eery shadows. Kobe is snoring every few breaths or so, but thankfully softly. Otherwise I'd have to wake him up with extreme prejudice. I lay on top of my sleeping bag, shivering until I can't take it anymore. I crawl back under the warmth of its layers, pulling the edge up to my chin. And I think.

What if I had left the safety of my bed last night?

Was it really only last night?

Why me?

Why Kobe?

Why were we the only two out of our families to survive?

I should ask him.

And then I stop thinking because I know I'll just make it worse. I'll always come back to the big 'what if', and I don't think I'm capable of withstanding that right now. So I remember instead. I try to find a nice memory, but the closest  I come up with is this:

Mom and Dad were fighting again. Clara and I were down in the basement with the TV turned up loud. But we could still hear them. Glass shattered. Clara blasted the sound up and laughed, even though we were watching a documentary on Charles Manson. She was the biggest slut in school, but she was never a bad sister.

I remember when she became that way: my mom was drunk and fighting with her because of boys. Clara had just broken up with her boyfriend of three years, a really nice guy named Tommy, and she was heartbroken. Mother said something about her not wanting a boyfriend bad enough or some crap like that, and Clara just snapped. She had always been the perfect little blond-haired, squeaky clean, beautiful, popular daughter, and all for our parents.

She turned the popular stigma from preppy to porny in an instant. Mom and Dad were furious, but it was too late. The damage was done. I think that's what they were fighting about that day, when Clara and I were in the basement pretending there wasn't practically a full on brawl happening just above our heads. Mom had walked out, slamming the door behind her, claiming she needed more wine or vodka or something. Dad drove off in his fancy new sports car. We sat upstairs together, waiting.

Mom came back first, six hours later. She was totally wasted, her makeup was smeared, and her clothes looked like she had tried to squeeze into them in the dark, which wouldn't have been a surprising reality. Clara cleaned her up and put her to bed to sleep it off. Dad didn't come home that night. He didn't return until noon the next day. Clara and I were waiting at home; we had skipped school because our mom was sleeping through a hangover and our dad wasn't home.

He made us go to school anyway. Perfection may be a state of mind, but the Harris family came pretty dang close, and Dad made sure of that. At least on the outside, which is the only place it matters, according to my parents.

Here I am, alive and well--okay, alive--while they are nothing more than bodies. The stinging sensation of bile rises in my throat again. I swallow hard and try not to think about it anymore. So, as guilty as I feel about doing so, I nudge Kobe until he wakes up. "What is it?" He shouts, jerking awake and flailing out of his sleeping bag. "Jeez, calm down . I was just sick of sitting here with your snores as my only company," I say. He groans and lays back down. "I hate you," he mutters from under the crook of his elbow. "I won't argue."

We sit in silence, either of us speaking, but at least Kobe isn't snoring anymore. "Why are you still alive?" I ask, my voice piercing the calm quiet. Immediately he stiffens. I can practically taste the tension hanging in the air, smothering a rare moment of peace. "Look, I'm sorry--" He cuts me off. "No, don't. It's fine." Kobe breaths in deeply before launching into his own tale of woe.

"I got into a fight with my parents over something stupid. I can't actually even remember what it was, but I know it was dumb. We argued for a long time before they got frustrated and went upstairs. My mom told me she was tired of fighting with me over everything and wouldn't do it anymore. It started while they were up there. Our house is--was really old and it just collapsed in on them. Danny was in his bedroom I guess, so he got stuck. I was outside sitting on the car and when I saw everything crumbling I ran. I don't remember anything after that because I fell and hit my head. But when I woke up I was alive and they weren't."

I wish I had his lack of responsibility in the matter. "You?" Kobe asks, eyes round. What am I supposed to say? Yeah, I was hiding under my bed the whole time. I basically killed my own father and let my mother die. My sister? No idea where she went, but I doubt she's alive. No way. I should have picked a less innocent ally; then I would have been able to say what happened. But I can't deal with that kind of judgement, no matter how badly I need to just tell someone. Granted Kobe already knows about my mom, but I can't help feeling guilty for the rest of my family too. "Same as you. I fell out of bed and smacked my head really hard," I say, which is not quite a lie, but it certainly isn't the whole truth.

He nods. "I feel like it's my fault," he admits. I shift around, trying not to look uncomfortable. You have no idea. "Why?" Kobe shrugs. 

"Because I'm alive and the aren't. I didn't say goodbye or bury them or anything. And because I was fighting with my parents before they...died."

"You had nothing to do with it." 

I wish I could say the same for myself. He nods. "We should get out of here. I'm starting to feel kind of claustrophobic," he suggests. I readily agree and we haphazardly repack our bags. Even if we come back I want to make sure I have everything I might need at any time, because a lot can happen in just a few hours. 

We are broken by our own families, betrayed by blood. 

Blood on the walls; blood on our hands.

It stains our shirtsleeves and the hems of our jeans, the bottoms of our sneakers. 

I can't seem to scrape the caked-on crimson out from under my fingernails.

I can't seem to stop drowning, choking in murky red depths. 

There is alive and there is living, but neither seems like an option I want. 

We may be doomed, we may be goners.

But as long as we are breathing we will be not quite so.

With every breath there is hope, crushing my ribs with its enormous weight. 

Not Quite Goners are all that walk the earth now. 

No one is truly alive anymore.