Heaven Below a Scorched Plane

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Chapter 2

I miss video games. They don't have television here, and all my handhelds ran out of battery pretty fast. At this point they're just scrap, but I keep them in a drawer anyway, as if I hope that someday I'll finally see an outlet again and can pick up Pokemon where I left off. I don't know, it's just, the only time I can't escape reality is when reality itself has devolved into this drab existence of steel, concrete, and fluorescent lights. At what point will it stop so I can continue life again?

I mean, technically this is life. I am alive, if only because that's the only function of the bunker. I think some bunkers actually have amenities, but it's not like I got to choose which hole to jump into when the fox came running. The closest we got was twenty decks of cards and fifteen pairs of dice. It'd be great if there was actually anything to gamble for. The closest we came to having fun was when someone wrote up their own version of Dungeons and Dragons, but it only took one spiteful asshole soaking the rules in water for that to die. I think he might still be trying to rewrite it, but if so he's taking his sweet time with it. I think he just resigned to silent musing like the rest of us, or maybe they wouldn't let him get into the paper store to write another thirty page handbook. I haven't kept up with him, so I wouldn't know.

Now that I think about it, no one really keeps up with anyone. Conversation tends to be sparse nowadays, and no one makes plans or asks for anyone's name. We just eat, exercise, think, and sleep. I remember the bunker being a little more lively, after the initial shock of a changed living situation. There was a real effort to make the most of what had happened, but I guess over time we all retreated inward. With no concept of time people's schedules became disjointed. It became harder to see the same person on a regular basis, and I think people just stopped trying.

There actually was a girl I talked to somewhat regularly, before the silence became so pervasive. I think her name was Kylie, but I may have that wrong. We got along pretty well, but we just stopped after a while. I think since then I've seen her once, but we're on pretty different schedules, so I doubt we'll talk again.

But I mean, it's probably for the better. There's nothing left to talk about that doesn't remind people of what they lost. Two hundred people, just shuffling around to their next required activity or to their room to sit around chewing the fat of memory until they choke on it. I take it back, it's not for the better. We lost any concept of better or worse, we've flatlined existence. Every day I just want to fucking scream because it's all the same and we never stop we just keep going all the same i dont even care whats the point of being if all it is is the same blocks of of nothing and the same ride on the treadmill like were just cattle no were worse than cattle at least cattle dies for a reason

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