It was dawn, the sun had not finished rising when he was startled awake by the anguished bellows that filled the streets. He jumped out of bed, dashed towards his window, and moved aside his dreary curtain, curiously looking for the image that would accompany such a sound. He saw it all from his second-story apartment window; mothers, daughters, sisters, and wives hanging half of their bodies out of their windows in the apartments across the street, desperately searching for their loved ones. Many of them sobbed and called out, he saw women, of all ages, on the street, howling uncontrollably– some even to the point of collapse– while looking at one another in desperate bewilderment. Women carried young girls who weren’t their daughters and girls desperately seeking the embrace of women who weren’t their mothers. The dreadful sound echoed throughout the third-floor hallways of his apartment complex, terrible muffled screams were heard in the rooms adjacent, and vibrations from discordant confusion shook the walls. At the same time, a tumultuous clatter was felt on the floor above his head.
“Something is quite wrong,” thought the man in the same sentiment one would feel if they dropped a penny. The realization seemed to pierce through all the horrible noise and come about at the exact moment he heard a woman, whose voice was almost muffled by the wave of clamor, say helplessly into the damp air that all the men were gone. The thought in his mind and the words from the woman coincided to bring about the fact, but for some odd reason, he did not feel inclined to stick his head out from his window to reassure the livid mass that he was, in fact, alive. Instead, he quickly closed his curtains to conceal him as he walked over to his living room in bewilderment. He had gotten into the habit of not making his bed; structure and hygiene had also been a practice that he had lost grip on for quite some time. Nevertheless, those things did not matter at present. How was it possible that all the men simultaneously vanished without a trace? He thought. How is it that he had not joined them? Had they devised this exodus without him? But it could not be possible for every man to gather his sons and leave all in one night without being noticed, nor would it have been a funny practical joke. Some thresholds in his mind shattered, all logic had been exhausted and he began to doubt reason, entertaining ideas that only seemed plausible within the realms of fiction. Alien abductions and spiritual raptures crossed his mind; images of boys dissipating while sitting in classrooms and men vanishing while driving to work assailed him. Anything could be thought, but sense did not derive from any of it. In his last desperate attempt to retain any ounce of sanity, his mind resorted to its conclusion, deducing that this was all merely a dream, but the violent pang of hunger assured him otherwise.
The television had been left on from the night before, left in the background only as ambience for his daydreams. It had been tuned to the sports channel, but now there was a woman announcer, her disposition much more disconcerted and faintly trembling. Her skin was a soft brown complexion, her eyes were round, wide, and sincere; her plump lips were coated in red oil, her purple lips seen briefly whenever they quivered; her elegant face beautifully framed by sleek black hair that sat just above her shoulders; her dress was burgundy, which blended well against the neutral backdrop, the material held close against her skin, leaving a tasteful window of her modest bust. He grabbed the remote from the kitchen counter and turned up the volume of the television that sat across the room, the picture transmitted clearly against the dull curtains that deprived the modest apartment of any light. He turned up the volume loud enough for his ears to tune out the screams from the streets, the distant explosions, and the women running wild throughout the halls, emitting sounds that were devoid of all sense; he was sure that he heard animals running by, as well. The woman on the screen reported, with sheer terror, the news that was transpiring around the planet: planes falling out of the skies, conflagrations were ravaging the tropical rainforests in South America, as well as the Eastern and the Western part of the United States; ships had been stranded at sea or crashing into oil rigs and ports, producing massive explosions, releasing toxic chemicals into the air and sea. Apparently, society was collapsing, and while the news played in the background, he was crouched in front of his open refrigerator, deciding what to do with the three eggs left in its carton, the carton of orange juice that had less than half a cup left, the nearly expired milk, and the bag of corn cereal that sat next to it.
“What about the lovers left unsatisfied, and the mothers deprived of their pregnancies?” He thought.
He had made up his mind on the cereal and grabbed a white bowl from the cupboard, he unfurled the bag and poured it in, he then followed suit with the off-white 2%. He ate absentmindedly, not too concerned with what was transpiring, not because he did not care, he simply did not understand it, he was not prepared to. As he took his final spoonful of cereal, he heard his cell phone ringing from his bedroom. The chimes flushed his bowels, and he became alarmed, he did not know who it could have been. He began walking towards the room, each step sending a shock to his chest. He did not bother turning on the light to make finding it easier, he simply laid his hand flat on the crumpled comforter and glided his hand through the deep wrinkles until it landed on the plastic shell. The phone vibrated in his hand as he slowly slid it out, he turned it over to see that it was his mother calling him. He could not look away from his phone as he walked out of the room. It had been years since she had reached out, and he felt no obligation to answer, he felt guilt instead. The last time they saw each other was three years prior, in the fall, when she expressed how disappointed she was with him leaving university just to do nothing with his life. That was also the last time they spoke. Then there was a violent knock at the door, which caused him to drop his phone. A woman yelled from the other side,
“Is anyone in here?” His mouth could not utter, and he felt almost compelled to hide. She banged three more times with heavy fists, “I’m breaking in!”
He was frozen. Life had finally come to confront him, and there he was, standing in consternation, with the faint odor of morning breath still on his tongue, crust in his eyes, stark body odor, and his disheveled disposition. He was an ugly creature, too embarrassed to be seen by another, and yet, there he stood, in front of his door, as the woman on the other end began to force it open. The worn, polished doorknob loosened with each vehement kick. It was almost open, and the tears began to well up in his eyes. A swift swing of the door revealed a blonde, middle-aged woman, she had a husky frame, and her skin was finely aged, she was beautiful, and the feral look in her eyes changed suddenly at the sight of him. Her breaths seemed to overlap as the women behind her looked in, all with the same hopeful desperation. They ran towards him, the blonde woman reaching him first, giving him an embrace. She could not let him go and he began to sob. The women stood around him, holding each other, and they could not help but begin to sob as well.
The Deep End 