What Lasts in Us

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I used to be fixated with Death. Not just Death himself, but death itself. Makes sense?

History intrigued me: World War I and World War II, and the atrocities that occurred during those years. I was intrigued with what drove people like Hitler and Stalin, and I was intrigued with the royal family in Russia that included the Princess Anastasia.

On the flip side, I was obsessed with the Titanic, and how it all went wrong. I was interested in the convicts that were sent to Australia, I read books upon books that involved pirates and treasure.

Then, closer to home: my mum's dad died when I was halfway through high school. He had cancer. Tori's mum died of cancer when she was eight, and it always had me thinking: why? How? My grandfather was old. Tori's mum was healthy. What was death's pattern? How did it choose whose time was up?

It didn't. It didn't discriminate. It came down to luck. And many didn't have it.

My parents didn't have it. But they were lucky to have one another when they passed away. And Thea ...

I'd been so fixated with death that I didn't know he was knocking on our front door, looking for its next victim. Nobody recognised him, because he wasn't wearing his black cloak and wasn't carrying his signature weapon.

I would greet Death with open arms when the time eventually comes. He's like a friend now, constantly watching my back, looking over my shoulder. Sometimes I think he's the only one who really cares whether I live or die.

I've never been philosophical, but you have plenty of time to think when there's nothing else to occupy your brain. I haven't figured out the meaning of life yet, but I guess that's something no one actually wants to talk about anymore.

It's probably because it's never really mattered, when we used to care so much about phones and wi-fi and social media. Now, the meaning of life has never mattered as much as it does now. What is the meaning of life, when we're not really living a life? What keeps you going, what keeps you grounded?

I know my answer. It's complex, hypocritical, and selfish. It's what keeps me going, and I know if someone challenges it, questions it, I'll be back to square one, and at this stage I can't really be doubting myself.

I've subdued that voice, the one that makes you question and doubt yourself. I haven't really heard it much lately, because I've managed to find a way to keep it locked up. But man, does it bruise your ego when it screams at you.

Not that my ego needs a bashing. It's already battered and bruised and is still recovering from the moment the first bomb exploded, when the virus spread.

That was the moment my ego made a run for it, when my handgun became my new best friend. I looked more the part than I felt the part. But I knew I could survive – see, my ego making an appearance there? – because of my parents, the Doomsday Preppers. It's because of them that I've lasted this long. And it's because of them I'm here now, questioning my own sanity, drowning in death and Death.

Sometimes, late at night, when it's just me and the stars above, twinkling and watching me, I do wish Death would take my hand, greet me like an old friend, and take me away. He would take me to hell, obviously, but I don't have a problem with that. Because I've already been to hell. I'm living in it, day in, day out.

It would be much easier than just existing. I would be reunited with my family. I would see Mum, Dad, and Thea – hopefully in a scene reminiscent of Rose finally joining Jack in the afterlife at the end of Titanic. Music and all.

But the hypocritical part of me wants to live. It wants to see me live to old age then perhaps die from pneumonia or something. Which would be alright, if I could get to old age. Nothing is simple anymore, not when basically anything nowadays can kill you.

If I were to live to old age, my brain always ignores one very important detail: I'm not alone. Because in all honesty, I definitely don't think I can go that long without human company. At the moment? Sure. But to carve out my own space, and then live there by myself until I'm what, seventy? I don't think that'll work, oddly enough.

Hopefully my will to live will get me through. Because as much as I like Death, I don't think I'm quite ready to join him just yet.