Day 562

There is no more food in the pantry or in the refrigerator. The cheap coffee I bought a few months ago has kept me going since I woke up, but the shakes have started to kick in. I can’t tell if they’re from the caffeine or the hunger. It’s hardly even hunger anymore - my stomach is content. It’s moved past my stomach, up into my arms, hands, and fingers. A dull headache adds a layer of pain to everything. I feel like a mental patient, scratching away erratically at a piece of paper with a pen. 

Technically, I haven’t had anything in my apartment that would qualify to most people as “food” in a week or so. Experience has taught me how to be resourceful. You can consume many ingredients alone to get the shakes to stop. Yesterday it was a knife-full of peanut butter at 1pm, then a bag of popcorn at 9om. The last of both, unfortunately. The only thing left was a bag of cat food, meant for my Victoria. 

The grocery store is only about 10 minutes away by walking. A walk that's very doable, albeit hot, most of the year here in Atlanta. So hot that I’m liable to have my shirt a few different shades of wet by the time I'm halfway there. It doesn't matter what I do- the few times I brave the journey to the store I've always grabbed a new cure, a new deodorant or antiperspirant, but it makes no difference- my arms, my chest, and my back all pour out of me. Better to stay inside in the cool, where no one can see me. 

Despite this, my neighbor has seen me before. A few trips back, maybe 4 months ago, I carried my biggest haul yet - I needed both hands to carry it. She saw me as she was leaving - my age, my height, dirty blonde. Cute. I didn’t think I’d heard or seen her leave before, so she must work remotely like I do. She wore gym clothes and had a duffel bag around her. She looked at me. Looked. I moved my eyes up from the ground towards hers, keeping my head still pointed down. Our eyes met briefly - I could see the look in her eyes at me- she saw me. My sweat. The struggle of my fingers to keep a grip on the bag. She saw my mismatched socks and my unwashed jeans and how my taped up glasses sat unevenly on my face. Her eyes showed me nothing but revulsion. 

A moment after our eyes met, she flashed a smile and then passed me. I hurried as quickly as I could to the safety of my door, fumbled for my key, and dropped it. The crash of the key on the floor echoed down the hall, surely she’d heard it. I stooped down, careful not to show my ass toward her, and finally unlocked the door. My drenched clothes clung tight to me, a cotton prison. I removed them all. 

Grocery trips are the only reason I have to leave. My world is 30 feet by 25 feet, roughly. My one room apartment. The computer at one corner was like a portal in a fantasy story - it let me leave my drywalled box to go anywhere I wanted, and to work. I’m lucky enough I can work without being disturbed - no team to coordinate with, no meetings to attend. My manager sends me a morning and an evening email, a sort of pulse check. I set up a few different automatic replies to them depending on the day of the week, then they go to my trash folder. Whenever I want, I can “step out” and play with my Victoria. She begs me for attention, and as soon as I’ve tired her out, she drifts off into a nap that will last the next hour. My room is quiet most of the day, but especially when she sleeps. The blinds are shut so no one can see in, keeping it darker for her. There’s almost no sensory input- no smell, no taste. No sound or sight. I feel myself breathe in and out, feel my heart beating in my chest. Feel my arms shake in their familiar way. I head towards the cat food. 

The shakes are gone, and now I think I have to make it to the store. A small glass of water to cure my headache, then the shoes go on. The door opens, my feet step across the threshold, and the door locks behind me. I return home with arms full of relief - vegetables to rot, bread to mold, milk to sour. Before putting it away, I sample each piece. Now, life isn’t so bad. Victoria inspects each item with me, a dull purr as she gets to each item on my list. She is wonderful when she puts her face inside each bag, and sniffs so loud you could hear it anywhere. After each item, she looks back at me with her huge green eyes. I look back at her, and feel a deep sense of love from both of us. I reach out and scratch behind her ear once it's all put away - her purr as loud as ever. 

Each time I go to the store, it's the same. The same build up the days before of little to no food, the same worrying of leaving, the same joy of eating and of seeing Victoria happy. Why can’t I do it more often? I’ll need another glass of water before bed - the headache is back. In the morning, I’ll make a plan to be normal.

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TRANSCRIPTION NOTE: This was the only entry in a leatherbound journal found in the deceased’s small apartment. It is here transcribed due to the condition of the original journal - cat urine and feces, as well as bite marks through most of the leather, have necessitated its destruction. The cat had been alone for a few weeks. Paramedics found it curled up against the body. It hissed, back arched and tail frizzed, and scratched the paramedic who grabbed it. The neighbor reported a smell coming from this unit roughly 4 weeks after the estimated time of death. 

The deceased’s cell phone had one unread message, from the estimated day of death. At 11:32 pm, from Dad:

Hey son, hope you’re well… I’ll be in your area for work next month, want to get dinner then? Think of someplace for us to go… Love you…

Cause of death was a brain aneurysm. Likely during sleep.