Earthquake: a short story

Earthquake 

I find myself awake at night, the sideways red eyes of my clock blinking at me. Mocking me. Sometimes I awake with a start, my body trembling with fear. Earthquake. I wait for the shaking to get worse, for the walls to cave in on me, drywall and timber pieces snapping my bones. I envision my children’s sleeping bodies, their skulls suddenly crushed, their arms reaching out to me. Should I run to them, could I save them? The shaking subsides and I realize it is only me, my heart now pounding its own earthquake into my chest.

00:00

In the bleary mornings after these nights, I can’t wake up. I can’t smile and say, “Have a nice day kids!” I can’t kiss my husband goodbye. I’ve been awake all night, afraid that if I sleep the earthquake will come and I won’t be able to save them. I turn my head away from my husband’s goodbye kiss. I wipe the moisture from the ridge of my cheek. Did he notice? He says nothing and takes the kids to school.

00:00

I sit in the garden and count drops of glittering dew. They fall from leaves, from arches, from stubby branches. They are beautiful as they twist, throwing tiny rainbows out as they fall, fall, and splat onto the ground. The few drops that remain clinging to their perches are slowly sucked dry by the sun. I think how much better it is to have a few seconds of rainbows then to hold on until you dissolve into nothing. I wonder which kind of dewdrop I would be.

00:00

I think about napping. Or cleaning. I’m too tired. A snail streaks across the dirt, I trace its trail to under my bougainvillea, the crimson flowers blooming life and death. Did the snail’s passage feel like an earthquake to the worms below? Were they awoken from their beds of earth to wonder what giants roamed above them? Am I an earthworm, with great snails leaving their tracks across the skies above me? Am I awake or still asleep?

00:00

That night in my dreams I walk slowly across fields of snails, crushing their delicate shells under my bare feet, feeling the cold ooze of their insides seeping up through my toes, covering my feet. I keep walking, keep crushing and crushing. I wake up exhausted. My husband breathes calmly from the pillow beside me. The red clock eyes are trained on me, condemning. I unplug the clock and throw it from my window, imagining its perfect arc across my yard, listening for the shattering, the end. I wait until pale light creeps over my bougainvilleas and the dew drops begin to gather for the day. I take my coffee outside and I see them. Piles of broken shells pooled with slime. But my feet are clean. I start shaking and I think, this is it: earthquake. Or is it me? The shaking does not stop. I look around at the trees, they are unwavering. Surely they wouldn’t lie, their roots so deeply entwined with the earth, surely they would bow their branches and shake their leaves to the earth’s restlessness. I try to tell myself that this isn’t real. There are no earthquakes. But the shaking still doesn’t stop. I look over at my children’s swing set. The chains are covered in eager dew drops, the seats sit motionless over the ground. The treacherous ground that shakes only for me. It is just me. It is me. I can’t accept it. I pick up my coffee cup. It shatters. Did I drop it? I held the handle, I can still feel the smoothness of the porcelain on the inside curl of my fingers. I don’t want to be outside any more. It is too terrible. The dew drops start falling falling falling falling falling. Crushed shells and cups, everything shattered and no earthquake, except for me.

00:00

My husband sits me down one night. “I miss you,” he starts crying. “The kids miss you. We need you.” I cringe as his tears gather themselves up, rushing toward a frantic end, a certain death on the floor. Falling. I look away. Up on the wall a picture hangs. It was us, all of us, before the earthquakes. We smiled from happy faces, another family maybe? No, it was us, high on the bluffs, a day at the beach. I can’t feel anything, except my feet wanting to move. I get up and go upstairs, go to bed. No red eyes, no earthquakes, I sleep.

00:00

He takes me back to the doctor. The car reminds me of a snail shell, fragile casing for a soft inside. I remember the snails from the garden… or was it my dream… I remember they way they felt when I crushed them under my feet. I look up, expecting giant feet to descend and crush me, to finally stop the earthquakes. Am I afraid? I don’t feel anything. 

00:00

So many words that I don’t want to hear. Degenerative. Full time care. Insurance policy. Neurological. More medication. I won’t take it. What if I sleep through an earthquake? Who would protect my children? I stop listening when the shaking starts. I want to duck and cover. I want to run screaming into the streets. My eyes scan frantically for a doorway, a safe place. I imagine pillars of marble, and I want to brace myself in between them. The pillars turn to salt. The salt crystals run through my fingers and across the floor, a wave of tiny glistening tears.

00:00

At home I lie in my bed. I don’t want to touch anything. I don’t want to break anything. The earthquake rocks my body, but the house stands, untouched. My children. Who will keep them safe? What if I am the only cause of earthquakes? What if without me, the earth’s plates would put aside their ancient tectonic grudges and finally make peace? My husband sleeps beside me, one hand reaching out of the covers toward me. I am afraid to touch him. What if he shatters, or turns into the salt that runs through my fingers? He is slipping, slipping away. The giant’s feet grow closer. I hear his footsteps in my yard and feel my house begin to shake. No, no, no, it is me. It is me. It is me. My pillow is wet with broken tears and I think, “I can feel! I can still feel!”

00:00

I get in the car. I can’t remember the last time I drove. Small earthquake, but I can still hold the wheel, can still keep the car hurtling forward. I make it to the beach, I find the bluffs that I used to love. I look down over the edge to the rocks below. I know which kind of dewdrop I am. I don’t even have to jump, I stand and wait for the next earthquake.

(This is a very dark short story that I wrote two years ago. I loved writing it, and though it is short, I spent hours researching it and tying all the metaphors and symbols together. I hope you enjoyed it!)