Quarantine Writing Challenge

Smoke hung so thick in the library's rafters that she could read words in it

Dear Diary,

There's a hole in the roof here, so I'm able to light a fire indoors, burning books. This building still has heating, so there isn't much need for it besides nostalgia. Before, I might have burned marshmallows, in a circle with friends, under starry skies. One of them would bring their guitar, and loosely pick songs we could sing along to. I read about that, recently. Why can't someone else's nostalgia become mine? Can't reading implant someone else's memories into my head? Nostalgia is the most beautiful and delicate emotion there is.

This was a university campus, before. I know at least that much. I can remember my past, the answer to 2 + 2, my name and my birthday, but recent memories evade me. I woke up in a state of chaos. There was shouting, a general panic all around me. I was told there'd been an explosion, and I was almost crushed under the weight of a pile of rubble. I was scraped up and disoriented, my mouth dry and my vision blurry. I had one hell of a headache. I suppose I should really get to the point and tell you that I have amnesia.

As far as I understand, this country is in a state of violent civil war. I can't understand the politics behind it. At one point, I wonder if I did. I was a student here. When they found me, I had a student ID card on me. I was also told that I'm an exchange student. That means my family's in another country. I remember them vaguely, and I see them in my dreams. I had parents, grandparents, and the idea of a brother or a sister doesn't seem that far off.

I was injured when the roof of one of the lecture theatres here collapsed. I was told that several students lost their lives. I spent a couple of days recovering in a gym that had been set up as a shelter. I was only looked at a few times. I was asked a few questions and my arm was bandaged, but there were too many people. I had nowhere to go. I didn't tell anyone about my loss of memories. They would have been able to do little to help.

And so, I withdrew. The people in the shelter have since moved on. There was a call for an evacuation, which I ignored. I slipped away, and found in that, my freedom. I have what I need. I found the cafeteria, stocked with food, some fresh, some preserved. I've found a place to shower, to sleep. Do I need to leave? It makes sense that I would be missed. How much was my life worth? Anything? How much was I loved? Was I loved? How much will I be missed? Am I missed? And what point would there be in returning to what I can't remember? Does my existence mean anything? Maybe, I'll die here.

I have a routine. I think that's important. I wake up, have breakfast, read, then I make my rounds. I'm exploring the campus for supplies. I'm enjoying the different patterns in shadows made by the sun coming through windows, jagged edges where glass is broken. I found some matches, and I've started a fire. I found a bucket to keep it in, so it doesn't spread. I'm using pages from books I don't think I'll read, and wood from a chair I kicked to pieces. For dinner, cold beans straight from the can. I might be developing a taste for them.

I haven't heard the sound of bullets or explosions in several days. Now, it's time to make a decision. I look up and from the hole in the roof it's started to rain. My stomach growls and I realize my self-doubt doesn't matter as much as I thought. I've been thinking selfishly. I think I need to leave this place tomorrow. If not tomorrow, the day after that. Maybe.

Droplets gather on the pages of half-burned books.

I close my eyes and listen to the rain extinguish the fire.