Post-Apocalyptic Questions and Answers
How did it begin?
It began with a tragedy.
Where were they when it all began?
One thing is for sure: they were not together.
Her story went like this:
During the beginning of the end, Marta was surrounded by her one true love: books. She cannot get away from her habit. If at a glance at her computer’s clock she sees that nine hours have passed since the first time she sat on her office chair, she would immediately gather the things on her table.(A half-empty pack of cigarettes, a borrowed lighter, iPod and bus ticket). Once out of the building, she’d pause to light a cigarette and start counting the steps towards the bus stop.
In her own world full of theories, she presumes that the number of steps needed varies on her urgency to end her day. First theory: if she feels like a hurrying director, she would immediately cut to the end of the scene with just 150 steps. However, just like today, if she feels like the world owes her and must wait for her, she would impose this beautiful delay and the end won’t come until her 250th step. She feels as if it’s her right to visit first her favorite bookstore and take pleasure in looking down at all the lined spines of second hand books, choosing which one to add to her ever hungry bookshelf.
Theory number two: a man can never have too many books. It is during this remembrance of a theory that she felt it. Just as she was about to reach for a poetry book placed rather self-importantly at a high shelf, she was surprised to see the books move. If poetic license would permit her, she would say that the entire shelf trembled in anticipation of her touch but she knew better. Books don’t dance nor tremble. It was an earthquake. As she scanned the whole shop, like she would a favorite passage in a book, her last thought was “So this is how the world ends: in an anticipation of books crashing towards me, of words falling one novel at a time.”
His story went like this:
Luke, during the beginning of the end, was bound by his godfather duties. It was his godchild’s first birthday and nothing could be more irresponsible in his moral-dictated world than the idea of being an empty chair in the memory vault of this particular event. He takes responsibilities seriously and goes out of his way to make sure things that should be followed are followed. Today, he asked his boss for an early out so he could be on time despite the estimated two-hour travel. He calculated everything, down to the time it would take him to drop by the mall and buy a gift (nothing could be more practical than a set of children’s clothing). He doesn’t need to regularly check his watch to see what time it is. He was certain that he was within schedule. He would be at the venue before the celebration begins. He arrives just in time, just as the kids were being gathered around for the first of many games. He puts his gift on the table, making sure that he puts it behind the others. He doesn’t want other people to take a gesture as small as putting that large box in front of everyone’s sight as a sign of arrogance.
He nods towards the mother, her friend, and reaches out his hands to carry his godchild for a minute or two. One could get lost just by looking at those two big black pearl eyes of her godchild. He spends the entire event in his assigned seat and even participated in a game where godfathers were asked to be part of because that’s what he is, a godfather. A fairly reasonable one, that is.
As he was just finishing up the prepared meal, he saw more than felt the tables shake. He didn’t know where to put his hands. Should he grip the table to stop it from shaking or should he try to hold on to something to steady himself? This whole business of not knowing what to do shook him more than the earthquake itself, intensifying the tremors. And as he was in the middle of deciding of what to do with his hands, his last thought was, “So this is how it ends: in a celebration of one’s youth and termination of my own middle-aged life just because I didn’t know where to put my hands.”
What did really happen?
The decay has started. It’s as if the world suddenly grew these scabs and someone accidentally (intentionally?) scratched the hardened skin and the bleeding began. A scratching so strong, it hit 8.0 on the Richter scale. The cracks on the pavements can be likened to the first few attempts on writing: jagged, harsh lines cutting through smooth, unblemished paper. Buildings collapsed one after the other, reminding people of dominoes toppling perfectly. The seas made its way to the front page by swallowing everything in its sight: boats, bridges, cars, trees, people, dreams.
They survived, didn’t they?
They did, like how you would expect protagonists to do in a movie. Marta, wasn’t buried under a mountain of books. Luke, at the last minute, decided to dive under the table as he watched its legs quiver, like his knees.
Was that the end?
No one could ever be sure of that, not even Marta and Luke.
