HOW TO SURVIVE THE APOCALYPSE: A DUMMIES GUIDE [MAYBE]
Barricade the doors. Check house keys. Call your Dad. Head count. Call error. Scratch that. Fasten the clips on your mask. But still refuse deep breaths. Keep them shallow, like an oil puddle for toe dipping. Check the match sticks still work despite the rain. Light the white candles but not the blue. See how many times you can spin before your eyes go blurry. Forget to eat. Count the freckles on your knees instead. Scratch that. You made lunch the night before. Add Tylenol for flavour. Remember how suffering as a child was warm under your mother’s kiss. Write a letter to those you love most. How many cousins did I have? Scratch that. Dye your hair a colour that could not possibly suit you. Laugh for just under two minutes. Then cry. But don’t any waste tissues. Check there are as many beds as there are people but don’t let them sing in the dark. Or down the corridor. The neighbours are beginning to notice. Make the tea too sugary. Lie when people complain. Teach the children how to make fire. Cry about their burnt hands and take over anyway. Yell when you see them smile and swallow pain relief until you’re sick. Mark the walls. Count the days. Teach your tongue to bleed all over and refrain from asking people what they want. Start ticking off the bucket list from when you were twelve. Manage a half backflip and sprain your rib. Scratch that. Stare through the gap in the ceiling and listen for footsteps that are too heavy. Check the locks. Head count. Whatever you do, don’t scream. You’ll scare the mice. Weep politely instead and check for double sided mirrors. Head count and count again just to be sure.
Don’t look at the bodies in the corner. Dead or alive. It’s no use. Feeling better will make you sick. As will feeling worse. Maybe, in the next life, it won’t take the death of the children. [He replies in my father’s voice that used to shake all four walls, “there is nothing as strong as death to purge the ego from our souls”. Maybe, in the next life, we will walk around with our tongues detached from the roof of our mouth ready to choke out all of our held in apologies or maybe, in our misuse, we will have lost our right to own one at all].
Kiara, 22, London - England & Swansea - Wales ✯ IG: @kiarajmelissa
“writing from the space between being kissed and bruised; with one wish on my lips, to be seen by you. yes you. my lovely chance-reader.”