The Apocalypse Blog
by Melanie Edmonds

I’m so tired. I guess I should spend more time sleeping and less time writing this blog.

This is the only way I get to unload. I can’t bring myself to complain out loud – everyone here is in the same position I am, and some of them have it much worse. I do what I can for them; it helps me as much as it does them, I think. I can’t burden them with the viper doubts curling up in my chest, or the stony fears squatting in my stomach. It’s not fair to them.

Sometimes, I feel like I’m going to burst and the only way to stop it is to write it down. This blog isn’t just a record of everything that’s happening to us: it’s the only way I sleep at all. It’s the only way I can make peace with even a part of what I see every day.

I don’t know how the others do it. They don’t have this. I offered it to some of them, but they refused. Ben said he didn’t have the words, and Matt said he knew I told it all for him. Thorpe just shrugged, and Sally looked at it like it was an alien artefact. I wouldn’t trust Masterson with the laptop.

So I collect their stories for them. Like mosquitos in amber, I hope they’ll stay here forever for some future scientist to discover and learn from. I hope our stories matter to someone, somewhen. I’ve even started burning backups, just in case, though that might be paranoia nibbling at my edges.

It all seems pointless when we’re scared about what each hour will bring, what new threat will turn up on our doorstep next. But it seems so important not to forget all of this. Maybe that’s arrogant of me. I don’t know any more. I live by the knife in my waistband but I can’t do without a word-vent every day. Hand to mouth, head to keyboard.

So little of this world makes sense any more. Why should I be any different?

Tags: blogging