I have many fears, but none is more terrible than my fear of getting too lost in the city of my birth and never being heard from again. I almost fell into that trap once. I was younger then.
It was just after I graduated from high school. All my friends were off to college, but not me. I had fucked around in school and managed to convince myself that I didn’t need a degree to succeed. My plan seemed to be working out at the time. I had a decent job and enough money to move out of my parents’ house. I got an apartment on the other side of town. It was a shit-hole… but it was mine. And that felt good.
Life was pretty good, for a while. Everyday I would walk the few blocks to work. I got along well with the people there. No one was particularly close, but they were my friends for 8 hours a day. And that felt good.
One particularly cold day in October, I remember because my birthday had just passed, a man in a dark black suit asked to speak to me. He told me that he was very sorry, but the company was downsizing. I would have to go.
I had enough money that I didn’t need to find another job right away. I decided to take a little time off before looking for one. This left me with a lot of free time and not much to do with it. All my high school friends were still out of town. I tried calling some of the people from my old job but that never worked out. So I was left with nothing to do but sit in my apartment all day. Alone.
At first I was relatively optimistic. Sure the days were long but I managed to stay busy. I read a lot and did some painting. I went grocery shopping about once a week. The rest of my time was spent locked in my apartment. As the days piled into weeks I stopped paying the phone bill, no one ever called. I grew distrustful of the world. My weekly shopping trips became bi-weekly excursions into a hostile world of men in black robes. Back in the apartment I hid behind a locked door and closed blinds.
My sense of purpose disappeared. I would spend whole days sitting in the dark staring mindlessly at the TV. One day I didn’t even bother to turn it on. I just sat in my chair and watched the horizontal bars of light creeping across the wall.
That day was the 24th of December, and that night I hit rock bottom. I went into my closet and pulled out the .38 Special revolver my grandfather had bought me for my 18th birthday. I didn’t bother writing a note. I loaded one bullet into the cylinder and spun it. Placing the short barrel in my mouth I pulled the trigger without hesitation.
It clicked.
I put the gun down, shaking, and walked out into the cold. I walked clear across the city to my parents’ house. They let me in, it was bright inside.
The next year I got accepted into a college. It wasn’t a great but I got a degree and a good job out of it. As the years passed I found myself living in a comfortable home with a beautiful wife and daughter. And that felt good.
It’s been nearly a month since the attack. Amy left me only a week after the government announced my people were responsible. She took Felicia. I am the enemy now.
They’re coming today to take me to one of the camps. A man in a dark black suit told me so on TV. I know I should be angry but at least I won’t have to be alone again.
And that feels good.