Chamomile Musings

I sit in my office, drinking chamomile tea. My wife is outside, enjoying the evening sun. A half-finished clock lay by her side. Recently she has taken a liking to carpentry, especially making stuff out of old furniture. I liked the little things she made out of our old things. Some were too broken to be anything, so she’d dispose of them.

The room I have made an office of is on an abandoned ship. It’s not too large, but it’s big enough for the two of us. We have pulled it into the land, repairing it, painting it. I don’t know the correct words, but the operational room, where they have all the gadgets is where we do our jobs to survive. We both have work-from-home jobs because we still need the money for pads and other stuff. I am still trying to find menstrual cups though.

I cried when I found out that this virus was killing more people every day. For some reason, it was mutating very quickly and gradually became resistant to all kinds of treatment. Whatever treatment was available, was way too costly, as usual, and around three billion died. 

Whoever survived has gone to lengthy measures to seal and quarantine themselves. They have food delivered to them through lengthy procedures. Kitchens are rare. No one cooks anymore, instead, the government prepares a special kind of meal to serve to the general populace. Some kind of rehabilitation program.

For some reason, suddenly we were back in the Middle Ages. A lot of powerful people decided to omit gay people or anyone from that spectrum, from the rehabilitation program. The same shitty logic. The children adopted by such couples were either confiscated or left to die with their parents. I hope the women in this program are not treated as cattle.

For a while, we paraded as sisters. Adopted sisters I mean. We even burned our papers. For a while we lived in shadows, looking down on the others of our people. We even made anti-gay posters for a while.

Hazmat suits, quarantine, canned food. Quarantine was our normal. I remember how we sat side by side in our tiny one-bedroom flat, eating that shit, like two live wires, bombs, about to explode, but we never said anything. All the loneliness, all the sickness being indoors, the shame, all of it threatened to spill out one day, but it never did. It was costly, but we tried to make it work. 

But they found us. The system had never forgotten us. We were afraid, but they found us anyway. 

We ran. I tried to make it work, but then I found my wife sitting quietly in our dingy makeshift home peeling off a part of her skin. I remember seeing the skin under it, red, raw, and angry. There was a little bleeding, but it didn’t make it less painful. That was the first time in two years when I removed my hazmat mask and kissed my wife. We made love like we were about to die the day after.

The mutated version of this virus works like…forgive me, I have forgotten how. But it does affect the brain. When you find yourself peeling pieces of your skin without any reason, you’re beyond help. Your brain is dead when you finally collapse and die. Or was it cluster headaches? I am not so sure anymore. 

A lot of people raised hell. There’s a movement for it I’m sure, but the last time I checked any newspaper was over a year ago. I still go near towns, and I see the others. I talk to them sometimes, and it seems like the situation is not any better. I used to have a radio, but it broke down some months ago. I need to learn how to fix it. 

People look like ancient roman statues. We are peeling and breaking apart. Except that we’re thin and covered with bandages. Sometimes there’s bleeding. It’s amazing to me how resigned everyone is. Now and then, we see some crazed and desperate, breaking things, screaming, and yelling at the others. But then they calm down. It’s not like anything will change. All of us are too tired.

Their homes are kept open. The sealed ones are in the centre of every city. There’s a barrier of sorts to prevent us from moving into the centre. But that’s alright. We don’t fear much. We don’t even fear the animals now, because they can sense the sickness in us in some way and avoid us as much as possible. 

Did I mention that we’ve created our own system now? There’s no money exchange in our part of the world. Instead, we do things for something to be done. If we can do. Sometimes, we get our things done, and other times, we don’t. 

Flowers. Lots of flowers in our houses. Some try to trim their lawns but give up halfway through. Some complete the task. But there are always flowers and birds chirping in the wind. Even if we spent our days trying to numb the pain, or bear it, we sit down at least once to see the flowers and listen to the wind.

My wife and I have decided that when we find ourselves forgetting each other’s names, we would go deep inside the forest and inject detergent into ourselves. It would be painful I guess, but at least we’d be together.

What can I say? Hope is such an insult these days. I’m only thirty-five, but I find myself sitting at every opportunity these days. We wake up when we are least tired and immediately start doing puzzles. Can’t fight the inevitable, but won’t let it hasten either.

We spend our days doing whatever we like. The only reason some of us have “jobs” is because the government has taken most of the facilities away from the centre. Somehow a black market has sprouted in that place and we do whatever we can to get some of our amenities. Sometimes some sort of luxuries. I always try to find chamomile and coffee.

Sometimes, we gather around at night, build a fire and just sit. Someone strums a guitar, or a saxophone, or a harmonica. Someone sings. I have read several of the poems I have written during this time. Someone or the other always likes my poems. That makes me happy. Along with my wife’s kisses.

Reality is so strange. The end of the world doesn’t seem that terrifying to me. Or to a lot of people. It’s a slow, painful death, but people don’t fear it. It is what it is I guess.

My wife is beautiful. I look at her and my stomach flips the same way it did when we first met. My wife is breath-taking.

I have finished my tea. It leaves a rather sweet taste in my mouth and I love it. I see my wife outside. I decide to change myself and then we’d see the sun go down.

I open my used bandages, throwing them in a bucket. I would sterilize them later. I reach out for the other ones on the clothesline. I take some ointment and rub it on my skin. As usual, it flakes, revealing pink skin. 

I keep on rubbing around my arms, and then the world suddenly seems like it is spinning. I look at my arms again. Pink skin, instead of red raw skin. Out of habit, I bandage myself. 

I go outside and sit beside my wife. She squeezes my hand and I look at her. The world is spinning again. What was my blood type again? I used to remember this so clearly. 

But my wife catches me staring at her and she leans in to kiss me. The world is her, the smell of her old clothes, and the feel of her decaying skin. Something I love so much now. She takes my head and tilts it towards the sun. 

It is a gorgeous orange and mauve and I link my hand with hers. I hope my blood is O positive.