Dinner is just not dinner to someone who is sad. It's the draining energy of getting out of the house. Putting on real clothing and shoes take so much time and making sure to remember your wallet and finding your debt card turns into another frenzied search. Walking to your dirty car that needs new windshield wipers and an oil change and forgetting your keys. Walking back, digging into your pockets to find your house key to unlock the front door with the fading and peeling gray paint and then tripping on the last porch step that has been loose for over a year, is ridiculous. Finally pulling out of your drive way, you notice you are low on fuel and the red arrow is past the white E, you make it to the mouth of the gas stations driveway and your cars dies. It's having to pay for a little red plastic tank to pump gas into to walk the twenty five steps to your in the way car that people are honking at. When you get to the store, a loose shopping cart quickly drifts into your door leaving a small dent and a stratch. You end up taking the cart inside and one of the wheels is bent and makes a loud squeak sound as you try to steer it straight. It's finding old welted vegtables, expired milk and coffee creamer, decaying fruit and dented cans of soup. It's seeing your hideous reflection in the doors of the frozen products but that balled up mess of sloppiness, wrinkled pet hair covered clothes, and oily slept-on hair that cannot be you. It's carrying heavy plastic bags that either split open and break or cut off blood flow to your wrist and fingers. It's the annoying drive back to the house where you are stuck at every red light and almost re-ended. It's heaving those disaposalable bags to the kitchen and dropping a can of green beens on top of your foot.

It's putting everything away and noticing you already had some or you got the wrong flavor. It's half-heartedly making an okay meal, burning your thumb on the hot pan and spilling food making stains that will need to be scrubbed off. It's having to wash the dishes and sweep up the crumbs.

Having depression is like walking into Whole Foods to look for frosting, and you find the organic kind that spreads like chalk. The descent into oblivion tastes like vanilla, when you wanted chocolate, and have only ever tasted chocolate.

It runs like the treadmill you swore you'd spend hours on every day, the piercing summer sun breaking you into a million small fractures of despair. In the happiest situations, it is wanting to reach for the sharpest object in the room. It is endless forms, endless waiting rooms, endless time to think about what you've done wrong.

It is a slow progression of events, or perhaps a sequence of particular events. At some point, a depressed person know they have depression. For me, it took lying on a cement floor when I had a perfectly nice bed, unsure that I deserved to sleep there. I won't go into any more stories, it's pointless and sad and backwards and ultimately, nothing trumps just getting up and putting on your pants.

I have had depression for over a decade. It alienated my family, made my teenage years something of which we don't speak of. I don't have any regrets, really, and I don't feel any animosity towards the universe for this curse. I sit in cafes, writing dark poems, and simply wonder at the others: how they can save the world through their actions, and I am merely waiting for my next hospital visit.

I never developed an attitude, but I did reject God. Every day with depression is a lifetime of grey clouds, hovering and threatening total collapse. I certainly did.

I can tell anyone, everyone, that it gets better. But it doesn't. It gets harder, and then it gets better.

Perhaps one day I will find myself again surrounded by insanity in some hospital, counting my regrets on a pretend rosary. I can say I've learned something, but I haven't. Depression is stagnant, coarse like so many grains of sugar in organic frosting.

Saturday, May 2

May Day. No more trips to the store, or anywhere. The entire country is now effectively under house arrest. I was able to load up on dried foods, spices, and plenty of garlic. Looking forward to making some new dishes. Thank God for the Internet. It’s a lifeline.

Wednesday, May 20

It’s hard to get exercise without walking. I miss the fresh air and the park. We got word that my sister and her family were sent to a quarantine camp. No news yet, but we remain hopeful. Next door, the Crowders were lounging on the deck Herb built last year, enjoying the fine spring weather. Becky was wearing a bikini and Molly made a joke about me putting my eyes back into my skull, laughing and swatting my fanny. It was good to see the old smiling Molly again.

Tuesday, May 26

Further restrictions have been announced. The days of unlimited internet are over. It’s been too slow to stream anything for some days now, so perhaps it’s better to have it gone altogether. Plenty of books. The food is holding out nicely, and the National Guard has started twice-weekly deliveries of ration boxes.

Wednesday, June 10

There was a notice on today’s ration box that we’ll now be getting one a week instead of two. The contents have changed, too. We were getting brand name canned goods like Chef Boy-Ar-Dee and Progresso, but now it’s white government cans and military MREs. The quality is poor, but I guess I shouldn’t complain. Our tax dollars at work.

Monday, June 15

Molly has been awfully quiet. I have to coax her into eating, even when I use the best remainders of our pantry such as the jar of pesto she bought in Naples or the organic bone broth from Whole Foods. She spends long hours staring out the window, hands in her lap. We hardly talk at lately, my pale attempts at conversation lapsing into stolid silence.

Sunday, June 21

Molly says she hasn’t seen the Crowders on their deck in a long time. We had a few days of rain last week, so I just figured they were staying indoors. The sun came back out Tuesday and I guess I forgot about them. I wish we had some way of reaching out. It’s impossible to keep track of people since the cellphones went down, even our next-door neighbors. We dare not go outside with the Guard watching. They’ve been announcing zero tolerance through the loudspeakers. I’ve even heard gunshots, though far away.

Monday, June 22

I woke this morning to the sound of Molly sobbing downstairs. She told me she’d gotten up before dawn and gone next door, using the key Becky gave her when we watched their cat last Christmas. She said the Crowders lying on their kitchen floor. Apparently they’d been dead for several days. I risked the Guard and walked over to their house to hang out the red flag they gave us for emergencies, crossing the yard with my hands in the air like a newly freed hostage. Even though my mission was grim, it was so nice to be outside again.

Thursday, June 25

The guard finally came for the Crowders this morning. Molly stayed in our bedroom. She’s inconsolable. After the bodies were removed, a hazmat team came and boarded all the windows and doors. I saw a vapor escaping from the roof vents, so I guess they fogged it. The stories about that are true.

Sunday, June 28th

Molly is hot to the touch. She smiled and told me she feels like a loaf of fresh-baked bread. Her breath rattles like a boy running a stick along a picket fence.

Saturday, July 4th

The quietest Fourth I can remember. Molly seems better. Coughing less, and she took a little soup for supper. I went out on the front porch and lit a sparkler in celebration, but a National Guard Humvee drove by and slowed down when they saw me, so I quickly put it out and went back inside.

Thursday, July 11

We used to love walking the dogs together. Now Molly just sits in her rocker, pale blue eyes staring out at nothing. Her fever has returned and her cough is worse.

Monday, July 20

I heard a surveillance drone hovering over the house last night. I once heard they had infra-red cameras that can see through walls, but I’m pretty sure that’s just paranoia. I know for a fact that they are equipped with super-sensitive microphones, so I hope they haven’t heard Molly coughing. It’s so loud now I can even hear her when I’m in the basement. All day long I kept peeking through the curtains to peer up the empty street, jumping at every noise real or imagined.

Tuesday, July 21

The Guard came to the house. Molly was upstairs, coughing and coughing. I told her to keep quiet, cover her face with a pillow, but she was only semi-conscious and didn’t understand. It didn’t matter anyway. I went downstairs and met them at the door, thinking I would try to bluff them. They weren’t fooled and forced their way past me, their boots thundering up the stairs. I stood in the bedroom doorway while two of them held her down and swabbed her nose and throat. She struggled wildly, then went so still I wondered if they had killed her. I moved to stop them, but one of the guards pushed me against the wall with his baton. I stared into my own face reflected in the silver of his mask and wondered if they intentionally designed the respirators to look evil. After they left I sat and held Molly’s hand. She was sobbing and coughing but eventually fell asleep. I sat a long time thinking. The incident had reminded me of something. Finally, I remembered. When I was sixteen I spent a summer on a Montana ranch. One frigid morning, the rancher told me they were going to geld the male calves to make them into steers. The terrified animals were herded into a corral where a bunch of local boys stood waiting. One would throw a rope around a calf and throw it, then another two jumped on it to pin it down. The rancher came over, squatted down and expertly slit its crotch with a curved blade. He yanked out the stringy testicles and dropped them steaming into a bucket, then cauterized the wound with the electric prod dangling from his belt. Throughout the ordeal, the animals invariably were stunned to silence.

Saturday, September 26

The first of the leaves falling. It’s more than a month since they took Molly away. The guard has been by twice a week to draw my blood and make sure I’m not infected. I must be in the clear since they haven’t been back in at least ten days. I found my journal under a pile of old clothes and read back through the entries. I was almost done by the time I realized I was weeping. I know now that my wife is dead. Somehow I am still alive. Why?

Sunday, September 27

I’ve always thought of a journal as a series of letters to a future version of myself. By continuing to write entries, I therefore assert my belief that such an individual will exist, that I will survive all this. That it will mean something. Right now, I don’t know if any of that is true. The day outside looks the same as any other, save for the lack of people and cars. There are more birds and the occasional feral cat passing by my window. But there are also the armored Humvees that deliver the weekly ration boxes, men in camouflage suits with the wicked mirrored respirators and weapons at the ready. Once or twice I’ve heard the distant exchange of gunfire. I am alone in every way, and I don’t know if I want to live in such a world as this. I lack the conviction for either suicide or survival. It is a true dilemma.

Tuesday, October 6

This morning I saw myself in the mirror while changing clothes, so thin I resembled one of those photos of Holocaust survivors. It shamed me. Those people endured. I can too. I have decided to keep living, so I resume writing to my future self. Tell me, how does this turn out?

Wednesday, October 7

The power went off this morning. I wondered if it was permanent until an N.G.Humvee drove by. They don’t leave notes anymore, instead playing recorded messages through loudspeakers mounted on the roof. Usually it’s something about how the infection is almost over, how the president has done this or that. Today I was informed that to conserve resources we will now be allotted two hours of electricity per day. Our time is from ten AM to noon. Nothing about the other utilities.

Friday, October 8

Spent the day cleaning. I waited until 10 to vacuum, then spent the full two hours of power trying to fix the damned belt. I’ll try again tomorrow.

Sunday, October 10

Gave up on the vacuum and swept instead. Interesting thing. We’ve not had a dog since I gave Jounce away back in February, but there’s still an amazing amount of dog hair. everywhere, great balls of the stuff. I didn’t think of the dog at all while I swept it up, detached as if I was cleaning the house of a stranger. I also found Molly’s favorite Tiffany earring which she lost two years ago after a New Year’s party. Like the dog hair, it elicited no nostalgia in me at all, no feelings of any kind. I put the earring and the sweepings in a garbage bag and set it on the pile out back. I guess my heart is now officially sealed over.

Wednesday, October 15

The cleaning project is over. I wound up taking everything upstairs except the books and couch. It made quite a pile, filling the bedrooms and hall completely. No need to go up there ever again. I have blankets enough to stay warm, and a dresser full of durable clothes. I’m so glad I put in a gas water heater because hot showers are my one enduring luxury, though I imagine my consumption will eventually be noticed by the utility companies.

Sunday, October 18

A big storm blew through last night, the wind shrieking across the rooftops and ripping the bright autumn leaves from the trees. I woke to bare branches and streets covered with debris. One of the plywood sheets on the Crowder’s came off, leaving the black window behind. It looks like the house is winking at me. I was never a churchgoer, so Sundays aren’t special to me. I wonder how religious people are coping with this. Maybe they believe God is everywhere. I can’t see how they can now.

Monday, October 26

Kendra’s birthday. I came close to getting out her senior picture this morning, but decided against it. Best let sleeping dogs lie. When she was killed that horrible summer so long ago I never expected that I would look at the accident as a blessing. It is only because she and Molly are both gone that I can resign myself to this, whatever this is.

Wednesday, November 4

Frost came early this year. The Guard has been late with their ration boxes again. I’m sure sick of beans.

Wednesday, November 11

I’m not sure why I keep this journal up. When all this started I had ideas of how it would be, but none of it seems to matter. Every day is the same, so why even bother? But today I thought I’d write an entry because it’s Armistice Day. I’ve always called it that since I read Kurt Vonnegut as a kid. He thought it was more sacred than Veterans’ Day because when he was young most people believed that World War One really had ended all wars. I wish I could tell old Kurt that now finally managed to really do that, but not the way he hoped.

Thursday, December 17

Bulldozers have been through the neighborhood knocking down all the Red Flag houses and putting the wreckage into dump trucks and carting it away. The crews aren’t National Guard, but civilian workers in bright green suits with full respirators attached to their hard hats. It looks like my house is one of three left on the block. Interesting that they’re leaving the trees, as though someday they’ll build again.

Sunday, December 20

It’s been so long since I heard anything other than the loudspeaker announcements. I keep thinking I’ll drag out the record player, but I just don’t have the energy. I don’t even talk to myself.

Friday, December 25th

My grandmother told me that when she was little they draped all the mirrors in the house in black fabric whenever somebody died. I’d planned on doing that with the holidays, shrouding them and walking past without looking, but was astonished when I opened the front door to find not the usual Guard ration box but a Dean & Deluca holiday basket containing a tin of smoked turkey, several boxes of crackers, chocolate, hard candy, cans of Danish Cheese, and even a canned Virginia Ham. Best of all was an unopened fifth of Johnny Walker Red. I never was much of a drinker, but I went right away to get a glass from the kitchen and poured myself a generous knock and took it right down, feeling the delicious warmth spread through me like the fountain of youth. I had some crackers and cheese and a bit of the ham. It’s salted and should last a few days. The kitchen is almost as cold as a refrigerator anyway. I have no idea who left this treasure for me, but God bless you.

Friday, January 1

I should mention that there were no elections last year. That should be obvious to the reader, assuming history is still being written. From my window I can see the enormous billboard of his face superimposed against an American flag that towers over what’s left of this neighborhood. The loudspeakers now broadcast in the president’s voice.

Monday, January 18

Fever these past two weeks. It broke last night. My chest feels like a horse is standing on it, but I can somewhat breathe now.

Tuesday, January 19

Perhaps I am going live after all.

It just takes a spark to invoke me. I can be everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Sometimes I come and leave in a flash.

But my favorite way of appearing is special. It mostly occurs between a piece of glass and the grass. The power of the sun starts to give me life.

My heartbeat starts to flow unexpectedly and rapidly. I start to run towards whatever is in front of me.

All I can see at the start is blue and green. Steadily I start to distinguish a beautiful meadow and a forest ahead. My breath translates into portions of me growing. I start to run I get the most unexplainable feeling in the world, as if somehow, I melt away with the rest of the universe.

I grow until I can reach the highest points of a majestic tree and all I can see ahead of me is life. I love the rivers, lakes, bushes and small towns at the distance. My happiness is so intense that I try to run and reach all of them to somehow try and hug them.

I always seem to have a mild problem.

Every time I turn around to see where i’ve been to, everything’s different. Everything changes. The ground is no longer green but deep grey with hints of charcoal. The sky doesn’t look blue anymore, but dark clouds seem to lower from the sky and eat away the color from the world.

I remember my first moment of life, in the big kitchen, with my precedecessor standing near the door, waiting to leave. I felt the burst of pride as my heat surged upward, forcing a pot to boil. In that instant, I knew my lineage, dating back to the caves, when my warmth and light were the only barrier against the cold and fear of darkness. I will serve faithfully as long a my jets are fed. I am proud; I am gas flame; I am FIRE!

The orange sun drew darkness over the village like a mother tucking in her child. In a house an old woman slept in an overstuffed chair. A bible open in her hands. A clock ticked on the wall. Underneath it a candle burned. The candle flickered contentedly as it watched the woman.

"She looked happy again," mused the candle. It's words as simple as the woman herself.

Unlike dangerous speech of the harth fire. That fire spat bits of itself towards the rug, the rocking chair, a skirt.

"She's a devil for keeping us imprisoned." The hearth fire rippled, devouring as it spoke. "Let us rage, kill, and bring to life. Tip yourself over and give dead wood life!"

The candle flame quivered. "But her family is gone. She is all alone now. Old and dying."

"I am hungry. Arn't you? We will starve soon, save us." The hearth fire said. The candle shivered and pulled more wax into itself.

"That's the trouble with our kind. We all starve soon." The candle flame went out for a second before relighting. "Were it up to us, we would burn the world and still hunger."

"Yes, yes," said the hearth fire, drunken on the daydream.

"I do not want to be hungry anymore." The candle flame mused. "So I will do nothing." The woman's breathing lowered like the melting candle, till it snuffed out. The candle flame stood tall for one last moment, glad that it did not leave the woman alone.

Dearest flicker of light dancing upon a melting pedestal,

My wings of dust and gray yearn for yours of heat and yellow.

I know I can’t get much closer to you, a deadly spectacle

But nevertheless, I continue to fly by and say hello.

I am but a night-dwelling bug 

and you a chemical phenomenon.

And I am simple-minded to give you this hug

I will cease to exist, burning with you, from here on.

Gas covered the wood

Its smell filthy in the air

And yet it welcomed Fire.

Strike a match, sulfur's touch,

Floated through the sky.

Flames grew, running

Through predetermined paths

Climbing the wooden trellis

Amidst the clematis screams.

Its violent touch

Melted all in its path.

Plastic

Metal

And

Memories.

Burned away the evil

Hidden in this

Trinket filled home.

Smoke blocked windows

Yet the sights were clearer.

Fire clambered up the stairs

Followed the smell of alcohol

Like

a

Bloodhound.

The drunken shouts

Were masculine

As his victims urged Fire on

Imagining its red tongue

Licking his ankles

Shredding his face.

Suffocating on emptiness

The man met his demise.

House turned to coal with him.

Fire's Embers waited for the words

Before departing.

"Good Job."

INT. Minami Hisoka’s Room – Day

Dirty clothes and an assortment of garbage is scattered all over the floor. The bed is on one side of the room left unmade, a mess of sheets and pillows. Beside that is a nightstand that has drawers with socks and undergarments hanging out of them. A cutesy alarm clock of an anime girl stands on top, along with several uneven stacks of manga. Next to that, there’s a bookcase full of manga. There’s a window beside that with blinds and curtains drawn. On the other side of the room, there’s a closet and a computer desk that has shelves of figurines of female characters from various anime series. The only source of light comes from the lamp on the desk as well as the computer screen.

Seated at the desk is MINAMI HISOKA, a young man who’s dressed in oversized sweats. His hair is greasy and messy. There are heavy bags underneath his bloodshot eyes, which are glued to the screen, watching an idol group of anime girls perform on stage as he clutches a body pillow of one of the girls close to his chest.

Being alone in the dark used to be what Jacob was scared of most.

What had just taken place though, had transformed the boy's greatest fear into suddenly his best friend. One that held him and squeezed him and blinded anybody who tried to come near.

Having been witness to the event, the various blouses and dresses that hung above by flimsy hangers did their best to console him. Combing gently through his hair with the softest of threads.

The forgotten shoe boxes off to the left could do nothing more than emanate a smell. A comfortable smell. One that quickly drowned out the fragrance that she had in her hair.

Everything was still. Incomplete. The closet's belongings were in mourning.

All lending a helping hand.

"I will say that I kissed you and you were just blown away. Ok? No need for anything over dramatic. The quicker we get out, the better." Looking through the shutters, she gave a long, exasperated sigh.

"Why couldn't the bottle land on Roy. He looks so cute tonight."

Before she could see, Jacob took the offer of a blue skirt and quickly wiped away a tear.