I awoke this morning and started cooking breakfast. I went to my room to get dressed. I put on a black shirt, grey sweater, dark blue jeans, and white socks. I then put on a surgical mask, as I did every day, and went to see my mother. I told her good morning, then went downstairs eat the breakfast. My mother never had much of an appetite, due to her illness. She just stayed in bed all day and would sometimes eat the bits of bread or soup I left by the bed. I knew I wasn’t healthy, but what could I do? When I asked her to come with me, she would just refuse. “I’m fine,” She would say. “Let me sleep,” she would say. So, would I let her sleep.
I tried again today. “Hello, Mamá. Do you feel like eating breakfast?”
“Let me sleep.”
“At least come to the table.”
“I’m fine. Leave me alone, Martín. I want to sleep.”
“Ok, Mamá. You sleep.”
After breakfast, I put on a gas mask respirator and left the house to find food. Every day, the first thing I notice was the deafening silence. Before the disaster, the was noise everywhere. I would hear footsteps, talking, phones ringing, and doors opening and closing. Now, the only sounds were the sounds of my breath and the occasional breeze. The lack of people meant that, slowly, nature was taking over. I could see dark teal ivy climbing the sides of the walls, cracking the outer layers, and creating infinite walls of green. Many of those buildings had shattered windows or busted doors from when I broke into them to steal food and books. It’s not liked the owners were using them. I could still find skeletons on the streets. The streets led to a nature preserve, which, due to the lack of people, flourished. Animals from the park had entered the city, hesitant at first, and stared silently raiding shops and restaurants.
I broke into one of the neighbor’s homes, a two-story building at the end of the block, and took anything that I could confirm was edible. I was so used to breaking and entering, I didn’t even bat an eye. I also no longer feared arrest, as the plague seemed to have killed everyone. Everyone except me and my mother. It got lonely being here, alone, knowing all my friends, my siblings, were dead. Mamá was affected even more that I was. Papá died only a month ago, and my brother and sister 1 week after him. Before that, we were all one happy family. We had just returned from a trip to Athens when, 2 days later, Belize issued a command to self-isolate. We played board games, read stories, attended virtual school. Half a year later, Belize allowed people to leave their homes. Everyone left the house to go to stores, schools, or airports. These became petri dishes for the virus, and, due to its rapid mutation rate, dozens of different strains of the virus evolved. The world couldn’t keep up, and, within weeks, practically everyone was exposed.
Mamá was devastated when they died. She wouldn’t leave her room. She barely ate anything, which meant she was often sick. This meant she couldn’t go outside, as her weakened immune system would not stand a chance against the virus.
I took the food and went home. On the way, I was shocked to find another boy who looked just like I did, tall, thin, with brown eyes, black hair, and dark skin. He even wore the same clothes and respirator as I did. I asked him what his name was and remarked that he even shared my name, Martín López. How is it that the only other living person is an exact copy of me? Was he real? I reached out with my finger, and he did too. Our fingers touched. He had to be real. Right? I invited him to my home, where we ate lunch. We told stories of the people we knew, and I learned that the virus killed his father and siblings, and that his mother died of grief shortly thereafter.
“Can I meet you mother?” He asked.
“Um, she really sick, so. . . I don’t know.” I said this mostly to myself. I had developed a habit of talking to myself, because there was no one else to talk to. I thought about it for a minute. “Sure,” I finally said. “Put on this mask and I’ll introduce you two.
I took him to her room, talked to my mom for a few minutes. He didn’t say anything, he just stared at her for a while, then turned to me. He looked confused.
“No one there,” he said.
I looked at him. “What?” I asked. I didn’t understand. He said nothing. Instead, he grabbed my arm and put it where my mother’s head was. My hand passed right throw it. I screamed, first from shock, then from fear, then from grief.
“You see?” he said, “no one’s there.”
I turned again, but he, too, was gone. Vanished. I looked back to my mother to see that she, too, was no longer there. “Where did you go?” I asked into the empty bed, but as I did so, I knew the answer. In an instant, I understood. I had imagined everything, my mother, the boy. He wasn’t real after all. It was all my imagination. The plague was known for causing hallucinations, loss of memory. The pain that hit me after that was immeasurable. I fell to the floor immediately, and I slept. I never woke up.
