* * *
My life first started to change one mundane day in June. I didn’t know it then, but in the space of a couple of weeks, my whole outlook on life would change. It was mid morning, the familiar newsroom was buzzing, it’s awkward jumble of desks sprawled before me, crowded and noisy; I couldn’t concentrate. Frustrated, I stopped typing, and started making the lengthy journey, through the throng over to the water filter. I was just pouring my drink when there was a sudden rap on my shoulder. I turned quickly and spilt my water all over Sandy, my colleague who’d been trying to get my attention.
“Oh, no, I am so sorry!” I started rummaging through my bag in search of a tissue.
“Don’t worry; in this heat it’ll dry up in an instant. I just came to ask how you were; you’ve been looking rather unhappy lately.”
“I’m alright, just overworked”
“I know what you mean! It’s a nightmare working around here at the moment”
“Talking of work… have you had any news of breakthroughs in the peace talks?” My voice was so different from usual; it was cautious, even. Sandy turned away; she ran her fingers hopelessly through her glossy hair
“No… it’s hopeless…war’s unavoidable”
She walked earnestly away as I looked uneasily on. She’d made me think, there was still hope …wasn’t there?
My fears were confirmed later that day when we were told that the vote had narrowly concluded that the public backed the war. The president had told us that Iraq had weapons of mass destruction 10 times more powerful than the average nuclear bomb. He said that we had to ‘act fast’ and ‘neutralise this evil threat’. I had once reported on the effects of ordinary nuclear warheads; the destruction is total, if you don’t die in the blast, your body becomes mutated. These terrible mutations become hereditary, passed down through generation after generation killing and maiming, decades, even centuries on. That morning I grew up. No more, could I push unpleasant thoughts out of my mind, I had to accept the facts and think about the future. If a bomb hit New York I would die instantly; I wasn’t ready to die, I couldn’t face any more death, especially not my own. It was for that reason that I sought the number of a man I’d heard about who sold places in a bomb shelter. I knew that this was rather an extreme reaction to the threat of war but I was so scared of death. Dying young like Nick, my husband was my worst nightmare.
A few days later, it was announced on T.V:
‘The national ballot has re-in forced the government’s belief that war is now our only option, therefore troops are being sent to Iraq, we are now at war’. I was in the office, for minutes we all stood, stunned. Everyone had hoped in our heart of hearts that it wouldn’t come to this, now everyone’s hopes were shattered. Some people started to pray, some just wept, others got angry, we all have our ways of dealing with things, mine was to shut down, block everything out. I couldn’t cope; the atmosphere was crushing me, suffocating me slowly like a blanket of sadness. I ran through the door and stumbled down the stairs, I fought my way out of the building. As I escaped into the open, executives in suits surrounded me; they stared at my tear stained face, exposing my pain as they pushed by. I kept running, as far as possible until my legs collapsed beneath me. It was only then that my defences finally broke; In the middle of the teeming sidewalk, I let myself weep. For the first time in years, I felt warm, salty tears seep down my cheeks. I felt relieved to let go at last, something I hadn’t done since Nick died.
When I got home, I hastily packed my things. I wrote some letters to friends I hadn’t told about my plans; I knew I didn’t have very long to get to the bunker. Unexpectedly I had a sudden urge to speak to my Mother. We hadn’t talked for years and I resolve our past differences and explain what I was about to do. This is our conversation:
“Hello”
“Mum? …It’s Marie” There was silence, and then,
“This is a surprise to what do I owe this pleasure”, She sounded cold, speaking in a sharp sadistic voice; I could tell she hadn’t changed.
“I wanted to say sorry for what happened”
“Well Marie, I think you owe me that”, this annoyed me; the fighting had been both of our faults.
“I’m not sure that I really owe you anything!” .I couldn’t believe what I had just said! I was annoyed but even then, it wasn’t like me to say something like that. Clearly, mum couldn’t believe it either, she sounded angry,
“You’ve got a nerve! If you just rang to tell me that then it was a pointless call, you told me that, three years ago!”
“That wasn’t all I’ve got to say, I’m sorry if I sounded moody, I’m just a little stressed at the moment. They’ve pilled the work on, what with the war”
“I don’t expect you’re too worried about the war, you’ve probably booked your bunker place already, you have the money to” This was my chance to tell her about my plans, to explain what I was about to do and why.
All the same, I didn’t. She wanted to go I could hear the jealousy in her voice. She was just as scared as I was and if I told her she‘d try to come but wouldn’t be able to, and then she’d try to stop me as she always did. I wouldn’t be stopped,
I didn’t speak to my mother again. My final conversation with her had lasted all of five minutes. I didn’t dwell on that call, I didn’t have time to, I had to get to the bunker quick. I called a cab and took one last look at my apartment; it suddenly felt cold and bleak, as if my essence, my soul had already left it. I grabbed my belongings and left hurriedly, my cab had arrived and the driver had started impatiently beeping the horn.
Five minutes later, I was in the cab, battling my way through heavy traffic. In an attempt to block out the urge to go back to the apartment, I started looking out of the window, people watching. This really didn’t help since all I kept seeing were families talking and hugging, spending what would be their last hours, together. As we moved, further out of the city, out to the poorer, west side of town I started seeing the child beggars on the streets, wandering alone. They probably hadn’t even heard about the war, they lived alone and probably died alone, discarded by the society that eventually killed them.
Thirty minutes later, I was at the shelter with many others. They all seemed to be from the higher parts of society, wearing Armani and Gucci (many of them were millionaires), few had families and most were middle-aged, I seemed to be the youngest here. There was only one thing we all had in common; we all had the same agenda, survival. The bunker was far out of the city, in a wooded clearing, peaceful and pure, untouched by the evil hand of man. If only it hadn’t been like this, if only I had lived a normal life, got old and died happy… if only. As we were led with our belongings into the cavernous bunker, I felt a sudden pang of guilt; it soon subsided. I felt relieved; I was going to be fine, I was going to survive.
* * *
A year on and still I sit lost in endless thought. I think about all the people, killed just days, after I came here for a pointless war. I think how I’ve changed; people say we all have, for the better, I know in my heart that I’ve changed for the worse. I keep asking myself questions like; ‘why do I live when so many died?’ The answer is that I don’t. Oh, I eat, sleep, and breathe, but really, I died with all the others, at least my soul did. It died when I put myself first, when I deceived my family and let fear kill my conscience, my morality. I killed my soul as soon as I called to come here. Without a soul, I live a half-life, filled with pain and guilt that I will carry with me through this life and the next. I paid with my soul for a half-life in a bunker, a half-life, in lead.
The end
Helen Crutcher
