2.4: Being There

It is winter, a chilling morning in the withering small town. Ice on the spacious dark lake progressively breaks, layer by layer, every street rests a blanket of ice that protects the town from the outside world. Carelessly frosted grass dampens the resident’s shoes that come in and out of their ice-cold shacks as nature silently watches them struggle and dodge the frost. Tense plants hold their breath waiting for the sun to wake up and free them, lonely birds struggle to chirp, attempting to awaken the few children still here.

Listen, to silence in the once overpopulated town. Listen to the shivering grass, the crunch that escapes the stubborn gumboot pinning it down. Listen to the locking of front doors and the slamming of windows as residents isolate themselves, punishing the decaying nature that survives off life and animation. Faint discussions of the past event linger around the streets, everyone has their own assumptions that rupture the silence. There are no more ute engines struggling to ignite and boat engines starting up with bundles of giggling children clinging to the sides. Now, amongst the silence is peppered the noise of suitcases being forcefully zipped up. Families aggressively load their cars with rugs covering their belongings, all running away from the abandoned town out of fear of being the only one left. Panic-stricken parents radiate their fear throughout the neighborhood, influencing more and more locals to bite the bullet and leave. Soon the only thing left breathing will be nature and anxious plants that cling on to the trees. The silence is deafening.

It is Monday evening, paper-thin curtains absorb the last source of sunlight. 5 pm shadows down on the town as the sun and the moon stubbornly swap roles. Children run their separate ways after playing Sherlock Holmes for another day. They run past the river, littered with cigarette packets and broken shards of beer bottles that replaced the exquisite sea life. They run over the graffitied bridge that has been disregarded due to the lack of residents driving in with fishing rods and boogie boards hanging out of their trucks. The cramped cottage is now in eyesight, slats on the exhausted gate free themselves from the nail holding them down and collapse to the ground. Once home, the children sit with their families, lifeless and dull after countless restless slumbers, children scrape their mashed potatoes and peas off their plate and watch it slide straight into the metal dog bowl. Sharp air quietly creeps inside the home, slithering along the wooden floor and nipping at the children’s frozen feet.

Look, behind the corner, where the notorious dairy waits to be entertained by the children who used to only worry about the flavor of their next icecream. Peeling, bright red paint tears itself off the edges like a burning teenage boy who stayed in the sun too long. Glass sliding doors have been replaced with shutters that the local working boy carries the remaining key. A bright yellow chair sits at the entrance of the diary, greeting the only local customer that still comes in to grab a loaf of bread and two cartons of milk. The shop is ready to be forgotten just like the rest of the town. Facing the dairy is the community hall that once held hundreds of people discussing the next tennis tournament or town fundraiser. Now all that stands is overgrown vegetation. Long yellow grass suffocates the dried-up sunflowers that once welcomed people in unison with the dairy’s yellow chair. Dying leaves scrape across the ground, begging the tree to take them back.

And then you are the only one left. Left with your thoughts. Left with nature. Left with the untouched, deathly lake that glares back at you, warning you to stay away. Left with the dust of the previous residents’ hopes and dreams that failed to be realised. Everyone else believed they erased this town out of their minds like deleting a spam email. However, you know that this is not a memory that allows itself to be deleted. The rapidly dropping population was always evident, although no one knew that this rejected reality was on the next page, not the next chapter.