Amelie Daigle

By noon, everyone knew we had less than ten hours to live.

It was frightening. Not just because the world was ending, though that was enough. Our fear was compounded by the knowledge itself, which had seemed to arise out of nothing, untraceable. It had no origin, no solid foundation, and yet everyone knew; we saw confirmation wherever we looked. The sky seemed lit from beneath. The birds were silent. The air was full of strange silent energy, a subtle electric charge I’d never felt before. And on every corner one could see some number of people, couples and families, all holding each other and crying. Some of them rocked back and forth. Some of them clawed at each other, the children especially, as if they could bury themselves in their parents’ flesh. I watched from the window.

As time went on, the families became mobs. It was beautiful, really—strangers comforted each other, acquaintances clutched at each other screaming. There were tears and there were curses and I felt for the first time as if I understood everything about everyone, society had opened itself up to me and all motives were strong and clear and all mental barriers broke down. Streams of consciousness erupted from a thousand lips. There were no secrets worth keeping. I’m sure there were secrets somewhere, hidden in the shadows or the throat of a woman who could not speak, but the secrets were quiet and the words, the consciousness-made-sound, filled everything. Songs and screams were equally beautiful—both were the expression of pure human terror.

And then from the chaos you emerged. It was six years ago, and you smelled like honey and apples. It was four years ago; you were crying. It was this moment, here, now, and you gazed at my window almost defiantly, daring me to be inside, daring me to emerge.

I think that I was carried into your arms by a single sob, but I am not certain; I remember with perfect clarity the feeling of hands on faces, lips on skin. I had eight hours to reclaim your body, to know it as I knew my own. And our speech was just as frantic; we were trying to say everything and hear everything all at once, but all I fully absorbed was your refrain: Traitor, you cried with four years of frustration. Betrayal, how could you, you hurt me you hurt me you hurt me, over and over, for so long.

And I don’t know what I said in reply. I must have argued because at the time I didn’t know, I couldn’t possibly have known that I was hurting you. You said nothing, and you laughed and sang just as usual, and there was no way I could have known. Maybe I did know. Maybe it was a look you gave me, I don’t remember when, but it wasn’t my responsibility to know, you were supposed to tell me if you got hurt, you were always supposed to tell me everything. I’m not a traitor. I think that’s what I told you, maybe, at the end of the world.

And then the electric charge faded away, and the sky was flat blueness punctuated by a disk of blinding white, and the birds resumed their song. And a whisper rushed through the crowd, cutting under the screams—a message from the government, from a scientist. False alarm. And the beautiful and selfish introversion was broken. I looked up and the world looked back at me, at the tears streaming down my face, at the bloody bruises I’d earned from kneeling on the ground too long. And then everything was silent.

Somebody began it, somebody stood up and walked away, but it was difficult to say at what point the crowds began to disperse. They moved quickly and silently, trying to escape the shame of being seen. This confused me. I wanted to tell you. Because I think it was the noblest thing I’d ever seen, a thousand beings holding each other and crying. It was the end of the world, and there could have been chaos of a different kind, but in our last moments we held each other.

I turned to you, I wanted to tell you, but you pulled away. I wanted to reach out to you, I did, but around us the crowds milled in their everyday splendor, and their eyes which had been so generous with tears were now hungry. They looked at you, and they looked at me, and my arms dropped to my side. And your eyes flashed pain and anger. I wanted to collapse, let the gravel pierce the worn-away flesh of my knees, but I stood before you and before the world, and for lack of anything better to do, I smiled.

Traitor, you hissed, and you turned away.

The world ended.