Sistine-Chapter 1

“Ohhh God,” he said, the desperation in his voice unmistakable. He limped towards a corner of the massive room so he could be to himself. The pain he was feeling was unbearable; unlike anything he’d ever thought he’d have to experience. Parts of his left leg where flesh should have been were gaping holes that revealed the bloody bone beneath. Somehow, his right leg remained unscathed. He’d been that way for 6 or 7 days, yet he refused to let anyone bandage it. Stubborn Bastard, I thought to myself. Maybe that’s what I’ll call you from now on. Stubborn Bastard.
As he reached the corner, he thought about his son. It wasn’t the first time he thought of his son since they’d last been together—that was almost two years ago now. Please, some one take me from this wretched place, he thought to himself. And he collapsed, helplessly pleading to no one in particular, and crying. No one offered their help because they’d seen him cry like this before—and they knew it would not end well. The very first day, he’d caused such a commotion after someone—must have been a woman—offered to help him, flailing his arms around and yelling like a crazed ape. Stay the fuck away from me, you fucking goats. Before they’d given up on him he’d broken the woman’s finger and had poked another child in the eye. They’d decided from then on, to just let him be.
The bomb shelter they were in was roughly fifty feet from the north wall to the south wall, and maybe 80 feet from the east to west wall. Not very big for a bomb shelter, but it could accommodate at least 70 people comfortably. Since there were only 12 of them, they had no complaints. About 70 blue mesh cots sat on the north east quadrant of shelter. That’s where 11 of them sat at the moment. Most were sleeping.
“Mommy, how long do we have to stay here? When can I go play outside?” The little boy’s mother was at a lost for an appropriate explanation, so she said whatever excuse came to mind. “Not now maybe later. It’s too cold outside.” Little did the boy know, later would be exactly two years from now.
The little boy had been sitting on his mother’s lap for quite some time now, and his mother’s left leg was starting to fall asleep. She lifted him up and placed him on the cot where she had just been sitting. As she stood she’d remembered the soaking wet socks on her feet and quickly took them off. This would have been a poor time to get sick. There were no doctors around and probably no way for them to reach any if the need for one ever rose. She needed to stretch her legs, so she maneuvered around half a dozen cots or so to an empty space in the middle and began to stretch.
The lettering on the seat of her pink sweats read “Beach Bum”. The green tank top she’d worn for the week was stretched and worn. Her hair was disheveled. The bags under her bluish grey eyes were more than just noticeable. Normally, she would have been attractive—hell, more than attractive; goddamned gorgeous, but today she looked less so. There was no way of telling that she’d won her local beauty pageant for 3 straight years. Or that she’d gotten an offer to pose for playboy. (She would have been on one, innocent page. Sensitive areas would have been covered up, but she turned it down thanks to her scruples.)
I made this all up in my journal, as I went along. I’ll probably do the same for each of the other 10 of us—even myself. There was no way I’d know anything about these people’s pasts, so I decided to manufacture every detail to keep myself occupied and entertained.
.
As the Beach Bum woman finished her stretching, she returned to her son, now fast asleep, and stroked his bowl-cut blond hair. “I’m so sorry you have to go through this, honey. I wish I could’ve been more responsible. I promise, when we get out of here, we’ll go on that trip to San Francisco to visit your brother like you wanted.” The tears started flowing gently down her face.
She looked up briefly, towards where I law on my cot, and I immediately averted my gaze. I’d been sitting up in the same position for nearly an hour, just observing the behavior of everyone else—recording everything in my journal. Why do people always talk to there loved ones when they can’t be heard? That was the thought that was going through my head as I watched her stroke his hair. I’d also been watching her stretch too. But that’s acceptable, I think, when you consider the circumstances. (Loneliness is inevitable in this situation.) I’d never touch her inappropriately, but if the time ever came, I’d protect her as if we’d been lovers for years.
***
How I’m supposed to live in this place for the next few years escapes me, and I’m sure I’m not the only one concerned. Reeves, the guy crying in the corner this entire time, was probably the oldest man here. He’d apparently lost his son a couple years back—had to do with the war probably. Ever since he got here, he carried a little photo of him and his son in his pocket—took it out once in a while and just sat crying. Sometimes I just wanted to reach my kleptomania-cal hands into his brain and destroy every depressing thought. I swear, every time that man takes out that godforsaken photo he starts to cry and the room just darkens, the shadows deepen, and the lights seem to fade all at the same moment. His past, unlike the others, I didn’t have to make up. For some odd reason, he talked to me only. He told me everything. About how his wife died, how his son disappeared. I didn’t write any of it down because I was too absorbed. I took in everything. Anyway, this guy had a rough life, and he took it hard. Why he confided in me, I may never know. Maybe I reminded him of his son; maybe of himself. Either way, I’d be damned if I ever became that miserable.
Oh well, I guess I’m just too damn young to understand. I’m glad I don’t. This place is depressing enough as it is.
I got bored watching Beach Bum lady, so I closed my book and rested it to the side. I lay down on my cot and tried to fall asleep. I stared up at a grey spot on the 30 foot high ceiling and must have stayed that way for a good twenty minutes before I dozed off. I dreamed of a time before all this; of my own past:
I’m in the library at the University of Richmond. The carrel in which I’m sitting has a golden plaque on the side of it that reads “In memory of--: Student, Son, and-“The name and last of it are faded-either due to the passage of time, or to the obscure nature of dreams. I’m looking into a book on the cold war. It talks about the tension the US and the Soviet Union felt after World War II, and through the following years. It claimed that the tension felt between the two nations still existed—at the level it was during the war—only now, it’s suppressed much deeper, as not to cause panic.. I’m reading this quite slowly, taking it all in as if some force would snatch the knowledge away any second. I decide to check it out and begin walking toward the front desk. I turn my head, and I’m just able to read the name on the plaque: Jeffrey Stuart, my own name.
I woke up with beads of sweat coursing down the sides of my face. My eyes were wet and soar. I could feel how red they were. They burned like hell. I sat up slowly, afraid my head would explode if I rose too quickly. When I stood, the floor was ice cold, but was bearable after I got used to it. I wish I knew what time it was—or what day for that matter. I know a week has passed since we first arrived here, but I can’t even remember what day that was. I stretched rather awkwardly, standing on my toes, my arms toward the sky, my legs spread. I got this strange sensation, as if I were about to black out. My eyesight began to fade, and my legs began to go limp; but only for a moment, and before long my body was fully functional again.
I started toward the kitchen area—it wasn’t really a kitchen. It was more of a large corner of the shelter where all of the cooking, and eating, was done; completely open to attack, you could say. I made my way along the north wall past a bunch of cots until I reached the north west corner. This happened to be where Reeves has now cried himself to sleep. Poor guy. The photo he’d been holding was now lying a few feet from where he himself lay. I picked it up cautiously, so as not to wake him. He was very protective of that damned thing.
In the photo was a much, much younger version of Reeves. He must have been no older than 25. He was smiling goofily at the camera. He had his left arm around his son who was a good 10 inches shorter than he was. They were standing in front of a large oak tree, just as lively and as colorful as they were. Must have been taken in the seventies, judging from their trademark seventies overalls; and picture itself had that distinct discoloration of old age. I wonder why he doesn’t have a more recent photo. On the back was written “Reeves and Jason.”
I placed the photo neatly into Reeves’ coat pocket. He stirred briefly but didn’t wake. I continued down the west wall, toward the kitchen