And Then I Woke Up

by Malcolm Devlin

I dream of Val’s civilisation; I imagine it built of rusting metal and repurposed detritus meeting the remains of the old world, which has endured despite itself. Two distinct sides, each of which think they’re the ones responsible for saving everyone.

were infected through no fault of their own.

There’s a story in each of these meetings, more to them than I’ve told you here, but—for now—these are my stories, my penance, and I need to hold on to them longer and closer. There’ll be time for them one day, maybe, but not today.

I was never seeking forgiveness. Awad will tell me I never need to, because it was never me, it was the disease and so on and so forth, but forgiveness—while something I admit I occasionally dream of—is not a blessing I feel entitled to, let alone one I expect.

again. A prodigal son, forgiven without a chance to learn from what I’ve done wrong.

A Typhoid Mary of the narrative, forcing it to evolve, to double back, to knot itself into fanciful arabesques. A flicker of doubt, and the story diverges like a new shoot on a tangled vine.

Or maybe we’re each trapped in our own narratives and blind to the experience of everyone else? What if right now, I’m sitting alone in an abandoned building, talking to a circle of empty chairs?