Survival

Survival is an interesting concept. Ask any one hundred people what it means and you’ll get one hundred different answers. Well, you would have, Before. Ask now and you’d get variations of the same answer: it’s staying alive. Although I wouldn’t recommend approaching anyone to ask. Yeah, that’s sarcasm. I never thought about survival Before. Now, I think about it all the time.

Survival Before. It meant a decent car, a house, electric lights, television, a supermarket with a deli and a Starbucks—near your neighborhood but not right in it. Survival meant restaurants, lots of restaurants, and bars and clubs and Saturday night out with your girls. Survival meant having the newest styles in your closet and many pairs of shoes and a job that paid you a hundred thousand a year, minimum.

Survival Now. It means one pair of shoes, without holes in the bottom, that fit well enough you can run in them. Survival means being able to run. Because if anything is broken or you’re sick, no survival. It means a blanket or a coat. Or both. It means a space in a building that no one has realized has space in it yet. Survival is a can beans—and a can opener. Survival also means thinking about submitting to rape for the promise of food, if you’re so hungry you can barely move.

Apart from those things, if you’re very lucky, survival is the something you could save. One thing you could save from Before. It’s one thing you’ve been able to keep safe. Something that’s close to your heart. Not your body’s heart but your heart heart. It’s a thing, an object you can feel when you hold it in your hand. You can press it against your cheek. You can close your eyes and kiss it with chapped lips and pretend for a second that it’s Before.

There’s still a little light. I take my thing out and look at it. The design in it is grimy and it’s moist from sitting next to my skin. It’s just the size of a quarter. It hasn’t been so long that I can’t remember a quarter. Course, none of those around anymore. The chain’s broken but still attached. I figured out how to string it on a piece of fabric torn from a shirt I got off a dead guy. The chain is looped around and around the shirt string. I made the string long so when I wear it, the shape hangs to the middle of my chest, out of sight under my clothes. I don’t want anyone to see it and covet it and rip it away. I don’t want to lose it.

He gave it to me on our last anniversary. Not a real anniversary, just the anniversary of our first date. That was a while ago, in the Before. His shy smile showed me he wondered if I would like it. It was heart-shaped and pretty, but not really my taste. He took it out of the box, all nervous, fumbling fingers. He wanted to show me the pictures, but it was small in his big hands and he couldn’t get it opened. I had to do it for him. He apologized. When it was finally open, I saw the little pictures. His was good; mine was not my best. I think he could tell I didn’t really like it.

But I let him fasten it around my neck and I wore it for him, because he was sweet and I thought I might love him. Turns out I did, and I would, if he were here.

So Now, if you ask me what survival means, I would say it means enough clothes to cover my body. It means a place to sleep with four walls and a very small opening. It means a tiny hope that I’ll see the sun again someday. And it means an ugly, heart-shaped locket held tight in my hand.

I wallow in these thoughts for a couple of minutes. Then, angry with myself, I pull out my knife (the big one) and hide it in the sheath on my thigh. I smile. Time to go out for dinner.