Grief: Five Stories of Apocalyptic Loss by Michael Coorlim Page B
Authors: Michael Coorlim
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to this planet, if civilization ever grows anew, it will take so long to establish itself that even our plastics will have degraded."
"Stop it--"
"It's all going away, Elizabeth, and nothing we do now matters. Checking the locks before you leave, feeding your cat, making sure George doesn't drink. Every habit, every social proscription, none of it matters. Next door two people are fucking. They're not using a condom. It doesn't matter because no child will be born, and even if one of them has a STD they'll be dead long before any symptoms show up. You are going to die, everyone you've ever loved is going to die, and no one will ever know."
"Why are you saying these things?" Elizabeth sobbed. "I told you I KNOW!"
"You don't know. You think it, but you don't get it." Ross closed his eyes. "Downstairs, they know. They know that nothing matters, because within the next twenty-four hours everyone will be dead. They've accepted this. They've come to terms with the fact that, for today, for the rest of human history, no actions have consequences. And you know what? You're not even bringing them down, because you don't matter anymore."
Elizabeth wanted to argue. She had always hated that matter-of-fact way that Ross had about himself, always hated the way he'd start to lecture rather than converse. She hated how he could lie there, so calm and self assured, so at-fucking-peace with his fate. The hate and anxiety swirled around one another inside her, turning the pit of her chest into a ball of molten lead, threatening to overwhelm her, to drag her down, to smother her in a frustrated rage.
Ross sat up on one elbow, watching her intently. "Let go. Let it go, Liz. Let it out, feel it, ride the wave of your despair. You've spent your life in such tight control." His words were soothing, yet they enraged her further. She felt for a moment unable to tear herself away from the sound of his voice, from the smug look on his face. "You had to be strong for George while he was depressed to keep him alive, and couldn't grieve for yourself with the rest of the planet. It's okay, now. You can lose yourself. You don't have to be strong. It doesn't matter."
The ball of rage in her belly erupted at this and she was suddenly in motion, transforming emotional energy into kinetic as she thrust a balled-up fist into Ross's surprised face. He recoiled, falling off the bed, and Elizabeth screamed her anger, frustration, and fear as she bounded off the bed and out the door, into the hall.
***
"It doesn't matter." She snarled to herself through clenched teeth as she stomped barefoot along the carpet, stopping before the next room, where the couple inside had halted in their lovemaking at her earlier cry. "IT DOESN'T MATTER!" She screamed, pounding against the door once with the side of her fist before continuing down the hall. "Doesn't fucking matter, you're goddamn right it doesn't matter." She repeated the mantra all the way down the stairs, the words echoing louder and louder inside her skull with every step.
The kitchen had become a wreck in her absence. Plates had been smashed, glasses shattered, cabinet doors ripped from their hinges, and a bag of pretzels had been ripped open, its contents scattered across the floor. Bloodied hand-prints marred the once-clean white surfaces of the refrigerator, and smears on the ground indicated that at least one bloodied person had crawled out into the hallway. Elizabeth slowed as she neared the blood, seemingly fascinated with it, stopping to drag the her index fingernail through the red smear on the refrigerator, leaving a clean trail where the drying fluid was scraped away.
She turned on heel, leaving the devastation of the kitchen behind her, the fury in her belly replaced by a detached sense of wonder. Its heat had spread from the pit of her gut, up into her chest, to radiate through her body to the tips of her fingers and the tips of her toes. She felt that, surely, her skin must be radiating
"Stop it--"
"It's all going away, Elizabeth, and nothing we do now matters. Checking the locks before you leave, feeding your cat, making sure George doesn't drink. Every habit, every social proscription, none of it matters. Next door two people are fucking. They're not using a condom. It doesn't matter because no child will be born, and even if one of them has a STD they'll be dead long before any symptoms show up. You are going to die, everyone you've ever loved is going to die, and no one will ever know."
"Why are you saying these things?" Elizabeth sobbed. "I told you I KNOW!"
"You don't know. You think it, but you don't get it." Ross closed his eyes. "Downstairs, they know. They know that nothing matters, because within the next twenty-four hours everyone will be dead. They've accepted this. They've come to terms with the fact that, for today, for the rest of human history, no actions have consequences. And you know what? You're not even bringing them down, because you don't matter anymore."
Elizabeth wanted to argue. She had always hated that matter-of-fact way that Ross had about himself, always hated the way he'd start to lecture rather than converse. She hated how he could lie there, so calm and self assured, so at-fucking-peace with his fate. The hate and anxiety swirled around one another inside her, turning the pit of her chest into a ball of molten lead, threatening to overwhelm her, to drag her down, to smother her in a frustrated rage.
Ross sat up on one elbow, watching her intently. "Let go. Let it go, Liz. Let it out, feel it, ride the wave of your despair. You've spent your life in such tight control." His words were soothing, yet they enraged her further. She felt for a moment unable to tear herself away from the sound of his voice, from the smug look on his face. "You had to be strong for George while he was depressed to keep him alive, and couldn't grieve for yourself with the rest of the planet. It's okay, now. You can lose yourself. You don't have to be strong. It doesn't matter."
The ball of rage in her belly erupted at this and she was suddenly in motion, transforming emotional energy into kinetic as she thrust a balled-up fist into Ross's surprised face. He recoiled, falling off the bed, and Elizabeth screamed her anger, frustration, and fear as she bounded off the bed and out the door, into the hall.
***
"It doesn't matter." She snarled to herself through clenched teeth as she stomped barefoot along the carpet, stopping before the next room, where the couple inside had halted in their lovemaking at her earlier cry. "IT DOESN'T MATTER!" She screamed, pounding against the door once with the side of her fist before continuing down the hall. "Doesn't fucking matter, you're goddamn right it doesn't matter." She repeated the mantra all the way down the stairs, the words echoing louder and louder inside her skull with every step.
The kitchen had become a wreck in her absence. Plates had been smashed, glasses shattered, cabinet doors ripped from their hinges, and a bag of pretzels had been ripped open, its contents scattered across the floor. Bloodied hand-prints marred the once-clean white surfaces of the refrigerator, and smears on the ground indicated that at least one bloodied person had crawled out into the hallway. Elizabeth slowed as she neared the blood, seemingly fascinated with it, stopping to drag the her index fingernail through the red smear on the refrigerator, leaving a clean trail where the drying fluid was scraped away.
She turned on heel, leaving the devastation of the kitchen behind her, the fury in her belly replaced by a detached sense of wonder. Its heat had spread from the pit of her gut, up into her chest, to radiate through her body to the tips of her fingers and the tips of her toes. She felt that, surely, her skin must be radiating
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