I, Cassandra

52 | AMADI EZENWA

It's still dark, but by my calculations, there should only be about twelve weeks left before the light returns again. The warmer temperature tells me it's day. I've had a meal of grubs that should keep me going until this evening, when I can eat the others tucked into my pocket. I crest the rocky ridge of a steep ravine and set the box down so I can lean over to look. It's deep enough to be lost in shadow, even with the moon's half-light.

Beyond, to the south, it's too dark to be certain what's ahead so I have to decide to risk going down the ravine to discover whether I can continue my trek southwards from here, or not. The number of dead ends I have hit in my exodus isn't worth mentioning, all I know is I'm not moving fast and at the rate I'm going it could take me ten years to reach the southern coast of Greenland. Of course, that's if the ocean hasn't slid in between and separated Greenland into two or three islands . . . or an endless archipelago.

I leave the box and head further down the length of the ridge to see if there's an easier way down. I have to go far before I find a decent spot. Feeling like I have already lost too much time I hurry back to collect the box, and in my haste, I stumble as I bend to pick it up. It slips from my hands and falls into the darkness, its metallic clangs ugly and desolate, as if crying in pain. My heart in my throat, I chase after it, desperate to save it, but I am too late, and all I do is hurt myself sliding down after it.

It comes to rest in a little gulley, dented out of shape, the door is misaligned and bent into itself, its smartscreen obliterated. I stare at the wreckage of it, horrified. It was all I had to connect me to my previous life, and now it is gone, destroyed by haste, and for what? The truth hits me like a tidal wave and pulls me under. I have no point. No purpose. Nothing matters here. I made it matter, but it doesn't matter. Everything is meaningless. There is no thought, only rage. A wild bleat of red behind my eyes. I heft a rock and slam it against it the box, over and over until the rock shatters. A year and a half of loneliness, loss, and the futility of my existence fuel the violence I rain on that little box.

I come to my senses, my hands slippery with blood, and my heart ragged with hopelessness. I force myself to look at the object of my desolation.

My little box, smeared with my blood, lies huddled and half-wrecked in the ground. I have killed it, my only friend. Remorse washes through me, a bleak tide. I want to cradle the box in my arms, to apologise to it, to take it all back. But I can't. It's ruined. I have destroyed my last connection to myself. To Adiana. The last of my dignity leaves me. I weep. Over a box. Over everything. Over nothing.

I remember the deep lake that lies less than a day's walk away. With enough rocks to weigh me down I could drown myself. There is nothing left for me. I no longer wish to go on. Nothing makes more sense to me now than this. Numb, I lean past the box to pick up a rock when I notice a crack in the door's seal. I try to prise it open with my fingers but it is impossible. I need something thinner, stronger. I need leverage.

I wipe away my tears and sniff at the broken seal, seeking the scent of the air within—air from who knows how long ago—and breathe it in. It's stale but I don't care, it is from then. From before. Inside this box is a piece of the past. It could be anything. It could be nothing. It could be everything.

I climb back up the ravine, the battered box in the crook of my arm and face the wilderness before me, chaotic and wild, freed of the violence and control of men. Even though I swore I never would, I know I am going to go return to Alpha VII. It is my best chance to find something to pry the box open. The long trek back to the city plays out in my mind, one month of walking, maybe five in this darkness. The box once more by my side, I set out with my only friend and companion, my salvation, and my purpose. And, I realise, it is enough. For now.