Dust- a Short Story

Dust

All there was was dust. The walls, the floors, the ceilings- dust. When he woke, his hair shook piles and piles of flakes onto the floor where they fell, floating when stirred, settling where they wouldn't be moved again.

His suit was not to be forgotten either- bright yellow, thinly covered with the roughness of the environment, dumbing down the color, the leather of his shoes in the same state. He sat up and stared at the wall before him- the light gray mustard of Sunday school brick, rough indents where the blocks separated. He turned his head to gaze out the open window where the breeze shifted the soft hairs on his head as it blew through the hole, framed by bare planks of wood. It was morning- he knew that. The sun was yet over the horizon, but the air was still hot. A bead of sweat traced the dust built up on his face, and he brushed it away. He stood and stretched, his back and joints popping after a stiff night on the concrete ground. After stepping through the window onto the roof, he made it down to street level by hopping from cinder block to cinder block, stepping around the rubble they sat upon. As he surveyed the wide, empty street, his stomach rumbled. It was time to get his breakfast- the grocery store on 74th street, New York, New York.

The walk wasn't a long one- three blocks, and the absence of human life really helped the traffic flow. He didn't even need to look both ways before crossing the street! But he did it anyway, a habit he knew would take time to break, but he wasn't sure if it was one he wanted gone.

Before the attack, the streets of Staten Island were bustling- not as crowded as Manhattan, but still busy enough you had to watch where you stepped. He could remember the times when his shoulders would brush others on the sidewalk, and being jostled among bodies, so mixed up he didn't know where he was or where he was coming from. Now it was the same, but in a different way. When he looked around at the buildings, he would get lost because they all looked the same- decrepit, crumbling into little heaps and piles around the foundation. Roads led to roads led to roads, none of which held any significant identifiers themselves, but he found landmarks: a fallen billboard, an abandoned hot dog cart, and the many fire hydrants and bus stations assisted him in locating himself and places he needed to go.

In this case, his path was lined with benches where, seven months ago, citizens sat and homeless slept. Though dispersed over a number of empty streets, identical in style and structure, they guided him to his life force.

The shelves of Geo's Grocery were practically empty, miles and miles of barreness, interrupted only by three cans of ravioli in the back of the store, which he, after inspecting them, snatched up, stuffing them into the inside pockets of his lemon suit. This store housed him the week after the bombing, when he secluded himself from everyone and everything outside, hoarding the food and clean water so he could stay safe and untouched by the gas and heroism harming the rest. It did worry him, knowing these were the last things on the shelves here. This was the only place in the city he knew he was okay to go into, other than his safe spot. And the morgue.

"No, no, no, no, no." He brushed the thought from his mind, and it scurried away like a spider into the darkest corner of the room. He did not want to focus on that right now- just eating. He just wanted to think about his breakfast.

He made it back to his home- or at least his hidey-hole: an unfinished apartment building abandoned a few years ago. Framing was completed on the inside, but the walls and flooring remained concrete. He couldn't go home, so he had to come here- where he knew it was okay to be.

He knew it was okay because he hadn't died yet here. The building, at least the part he stayed in, was open- had open air, breezy and cool, hot and humid, blowing through each room, coming from the open window he climbed through every day. He knew that a breezy building was a good building, and as far as he'd discovered, this and Geo's were the only places where it was plausible that the entirety was drafty and safe, so they were the only buildings he went into.