Mary died today.
I knew she was circling the end when the leg began to drain and when it drained it drained something green and smelling of rotting food that I had never encountered before. Her head, burning to the touch, was ever the color of seared tuna steak and looked to me like the beads of sweat evaporated even as they formed. She choked on all of the water I gave her.
It didn’t take long for the smell; it must have been gangrene, of her leg to force me to move her outside. But it was better that way. Better for her. Occasionally, when the clouds parted just enough you could almost make out the stars. She loved staring up at them and even at the point just before it was over, maybe the day before, when she could no longer speak in words that made any sense to me, she looked up at them and smiled.
She began to breath in heavy, raspy breaths and when she exhaled blood came up with it. I sat down on the grass, brown and dry singing a mocking song as it crunched beneath my tortured jeans and I slipped her head onto my lap and sat Indian style with her and rocked back and forth as she slowly died.
I told her I loved her and thought I saw a tear roll down her left cheek, but I’m sure she didn’t hear me. I saw Patrick and Mason go through this when June and Leanne died and I thought they were insane. They bellowed with anger and sadness and paced back and forth inside the warehouse and they never slept. They never dreamed. The never stopped. It’s probably what killed them. I didn’t realize that until I cradled Mary’s head between my hands and sang to her as she died.
I am alone now. I have not seen another person for three months. My food supplies are dangerously low and it looks to me like oil is seeping into the well. I need to move out of the heat, but I don’t know where the next supply drop is. Nothing on the radio for longer than I can remember now, so I sleep during the day and come out at night when it is cooler. Just enough power from somewhere nearby to run the fans, but it has to stop running soon.
Only three gallons of gasoline left. Twenty-two cases of water. Cans upon cans of beans.
It is midnight now. My watch battery still works. I wonder what concern time is anymore, but I still keep it. Coyotes are howling in the distance. Empty spaces where the moon should be.
I found this diary under a box of dried macaroni and cheese I can't cook or eat. I'm going to write in it until I die. No one will ever read it. No one will ever care. And if aliens land and if they did this to me and they find me dead clutching this diary they either won't be able to read it; or they will and they'll laugh at the stupid thoughts keeping me company at the end.
But it is not the end of everything. Just for me and the people I know. Small little grains of sand, or even something less substantial. And again I feel the fear caressing my neck...I want to cry but have no tears. This is what alone looks like.
I wonder what it feels like to die. I wonder if it hurts more than being alive.
I cannot stop thinking about what clothes smelled like when they came out of the drier.
