It’s been 6 months now. I sit in my room alone, watching as the clock hands slowly count the seconds as if it wants to hypnotize me into oblivion. I get lost sometimes, in the abyss that is time, trapped in the ever-consistent turning of the world on its axis, the vacuum of the ever-expanding darkness of space. If we ceased to exist, would time continue? Is it our own concept of time that makes it real? It might not be long until we know now; maybe I will watch the clock as a form of countdown to the inevitable.
The virus is rapidly spreading across the globe, like a spark in the dried out forests of California. An epidemic that absorbs the world, like a sponge soaking up the last of humanity. Soon we will all cease to be here. The rebel groups that refuse to lock themselves away are proceeding to transport the virus. They believe the world is doomed due to our own selfish actions and therefore we deserve the consequences for not treating it in the way we should have. That even if we managed to survive this nightmare, there would be another one, and we might as well just put ourselves out of this misery. Even those who chose to obey the quarantine may have had the virus in their system for the past year, in which case, maybe, we are already done for.
I suppose there is a chance that we will make it through. The news everyday reminds us of how we must have hope, for the doctors are still working in the overcrowded hospitals in order to find an antidote. I think this is just their attempt to prevent more rebels and encourage people to do as they’re told and stay hidden. Even if they were to find an antidote I’m not sure if I’d ever feel like I could go back out into the world. Behind closed doors, anything can happen. With everyone hiding, who’s there to listen when you’re in need, to hear you cry at night or call for help?
Father has never missed work a day in his life and the intense quarantine trapped him in this prison, where his sanity dwindles. He’s started drinking again, unable to attend his Alcoholic Anonymous meetings, and he’s growing ever angrier and violent as the days draw on. It took only two weeks of living in this cage before he hit mother the first time. To begin with it seemed as though he felt bad about it, but as the time drew on he became a dangerous monster, one you should not ever wake from his alcohol induced coma for fear that he’ll turn on you and proceed to ring out the little remaining life that you have left. My brother and I haven’t seen our mother in the last couple of days. Father has locked her in their bedroom, guarding her like a dragon and she’s the princess that we peasants can’t retrieve. I dream of princes that will come to save us from this hell and return our mother back to the old life that we used to have. The days where we’d go to the beach and lie in the sun, inevitably burning in the heat. Father would join us for dinner once he had finished work and we’d all go to the movies in the evening. I dream of places that I wish I could go to, places that I’ll never be able to see now, things I’ll never see. The Galapagos Islands, Machu Picchu, the African elephants of Botswana, the Grand Canyon, Stonehenge. I like to fade into these dreams. It’s easier than facing the truth.
Both my brother and I spend our days hiding in our own home. I sometimes pretend that I am playing a game, hiding from my parents in their attempt to take me home after my day of playing at my friend’s house when I was a child. Or maybe father’s just pretending to be the big bad monster and will find me and sweep me up into his arms, and carry me to my bed and kiss me goodnight. I barely say anything anymore. Neither does my brother. We sometimes will share sorrowful looks, wishing that we could find a way to help one another but knowing there is nothing we can do. He didn’t even get to finish high school before the quarantine kicked in. He would have just graduated by now if it hadn’t, due to start University in September after a summer filled with traveling and exploring the world, finding out who you want to be. But none of that will happen now.
I hear someone stir downstairs. Please God let it be my brother. But no . . . I hear my Father’s heavy footsteps slowly ascend the stairs, matching time with every two ticks of the clock. Maybe this is what I’ve been waiting for. Maybe this is inevitable, the virus I can’t escape.
Charlie Cluff is a sophomore majoring in Photography and Video at the School of Visual Arts. Charlie is a conceptual photographer known for her use of collage and installation-based work. She has recently started expressing her views and ideas through creative writing, and is greatly influenced by both time and disaster. With the ever-growing COVID-19 pandemic she explores the way that people’s true colors are shown when they are forced to cope with unnerving situations. “I mainly work conceptually,” Charlie says, “and my themes tend to consist of insecurities and irrational fears.”