#oneaday Day 660: Wasteland Diaries, Part 8

The floorboards creak beneath my bare feet, just like they always used to. The third stair up had made that same loud noise that always meant it was impossible to sneak up or downstairs unless you hopped over it — my father always used to joke that the third stair up was better than any burglar alarm.

The house is both familiar and alien all at once. Everything is exactly as I remembered it from the day I left, but there’s a curious emptiness, too — like I’m walking around inside a photograph. I don’t dare touch anything for fear that my hands might pass straight through it and shatter the illusion. For all the unease I feel wandering around this spectre from my past, I am also enjoying being somewhere that isn’t falling down.

It occurs to me that the empty sensation I am feeling is due to the complete lack of other life in the house. There are no humans — why would there be? But there is no other life either — no spiders spinning cobwebs in forgotten corners of the room (the bookcases in the lounge always seemed to attract them), no buzzing flies, no moths, nothing at all. The strange, eerie silence that had gripped the world since “it” happened is here too, and somehow it seems more noticeable here. There needs to be noise. I’d always hated silence. It felt oppressive, desperate to be filled, but my family had always been one to just sit in peace with one another, happy to be in each other’s company. Except for me. Silence made me feel guilty.

I walk through the doorway into my old room and there it is — bare walls, unlike when I’d been a child, for before I left I’d cleaned it from top to bottom. It was a cathartic experience that helped me deal with the death of the two people I loved more than anyone else in the world. I knew I wasn’t coming back, so I didn’t see the point of leaving behind traces of my past life.

I tentatively walk over to the bed and move to sit on it. My bare behind touches the uncovered mattress and it feels how I remember it. More to the point, I don’t fall through, nor does it suddenly disappear like a mirage. This bed is here.

I’m not sure what I should do. There’s not much I can do in my current state, disrobed and possessionless as I am. I close my eyes for a moment and picture him again. If only he were here. If only I could see him again, then I could be happy. I wouldn’t need to do anything for I could  just sink into his arms, curl up and sleep forever.

But he isn’t here, and I have to deal with that. I have no-one to rely on but myself right now, and sitting around isn’t going to help with survival. My first priority is to find some clothes — I’m not so concerned about my own modesty if there’s no-one around to see me, but I am a little worried about getting cold. Although the house appears intact, there’s no evidence that any of the electrical devices are working, meaning that there’d be no way to heat the place up if it did happen to get cold.

I glance over to my old wardrobe, built into the wall. It’s a long shot, I know, but I figure I’ll try it. I get up, the mattress springing back into shape now my weight has left it, and walk over to the wooden doors. My hand touches the handle and hesitates for a moment. I feel a slight dizziness and a feeling of warmth that seems to sweep through my whole body, but as suddenly as it appeared, it is gone again. Shaking my head, I open the door to see the last thing I expected: my favourite summer dress. While wearing it without underwear isn’t the most decent thing in the world, I figure it’s better than nothing, so I slip it over my head and pass my arms through the straps. I glance over at the full-length mirror on the wall, right where it should be, and admire myself. I give a little twirl and giggle as the dress does that “billowing” thing that makes me love it so much.

I’m hungry. Surely it’s too much to hope that a similar situation will arise with the kitchen cupboards, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment. I walk downstairs, smiling as the third stair creaks at my passing again, and head into the kitchen. It always seemed so small, but my mother could work wonders in here. I didn’t know how she did it. For years I lived in a flat with a kitchen bigger than this and always found myself running out of room. Yet my mother could whip up an incredible meal with the minimum of effort.

Not today, though; as expected, the cupboards are bare. Nothing to eat here. My stomach gives a low growl in protest.

I walk out of the back door again and into the garden. I find myself wondering if I’ll see young me and my mother again, but there is no sign of them. I begin to think I may have imagined them.

I wander towards the apple tree at the edge of the garden; here, the green grass is fading to the more familiar brown, and the tree itself looks long-dead. I know that there’s no hope of finding anything to eat on a tree quite so comprehensively devoid of life, but something draws me here.

I feel the strange dizziness and warmth again. It lingers this time, and becomes so disorienting that I feel myself stumble and fall to the ground, but it doesn’t hurt. I feel like I’m falling onto cotton wool. I close my eyes and smile — the sensation isn’t unpleasant, but the sudden onset of it is confusing and a little troubling. The fleeting doubt is brushed aside from my mind as the feeling fades again, and I open my eyes. I’m not lying on cotton wool, I’m lying face-down on the green grass, just like I should be, given that I just fell over.

Something strikes me on the back of the head quite hard. It hurts and makes my ears ring, and I feel it drop to the floor to the right of me. Did someone throw something at me?

Still a little dizzy, I don’t trust myself to stand up yet, so I fumble around with my hand until I feel the object that struck me. It’s smooth and round. I grasp it in my hand and bring it around in front of me, raising my head to look ahead of me instead of gazing into the grassy floor.

It’s an apple.