[October 1]

It is my eighty-fifth birthday today and I’m confined to a bed that reeks of takeout and unwashed laundry. A vague, warmish light washes over my bedspread from the window—the only exposure I’ve had to sunlight lately. Today marks nearly a year since the last time I walked unassisted, and a little over two since a spry young blonde guy in a size-too-big lab coat told me that I was being diagnosed with amyotrophic lateral sclerosis: ALS, for short. I shortly coined the more fitting term “decrepit old lady disease,” per the way it slowly steals away your body’s capabilities until you’re left a babbling, slobbery hunk of wrinkles. As of today, my legs have virtually no function and my days are spent in bed, ordering food for delivery and dragging myself into the wheelchair by my bed when I have to use the bathroom or get the door. My part-time caretaker visited yesterday, which means I have the house to myself right now. Apparently, I’m still self-sufficient enough that I can survive for fourty eight hours on my own.

I have one kid—a son. The last time I heard from him was three years ago, when I was still mobile enough to act like an obnoxious scumbag. I believe the last thing he said to me was something akin to “I’m looking forward to your funeral, see you then.” My closest friend these days is the brunette woman on the news, who I’m becoming very well acquainted with—we see each other every day, after all. She’s currently discussing the wave of humidity that’s sweeping my city. It’s hard for me to notice it considering that my cramped bedroom pretty much lives in a constant state of clamminess, and my time spent outside went on a serious decline after my arms got too weak to wheel myself further than 20 feet at a time. Although, I have noticed that the corporate businessmen who pass by my first-floor window every morning have seemed considerably more uncomfortable for the past few days. 

I’m about to switch the channel when the brunette woman pivots topics to something mildly more interesting. 

An adult woman was found this morning wandering through the subway station, seemingly experiencing an extreme case of amnesia. Authorities were called after the woman nearly fell onto the tracks, and then approached multiple bystanders asking for their names. The woman was unable to answer questions about her identity, occupation, or family when inquired by the police. She has been detained and is now being kept into custody until she is able to be identified. Please notify the police immediately if you recognize this woman.

I utter a noncommittal grunt of interest and watch for a few more minutes as they display security camera footage of the woman wandering trancelike between civilians at the station, shaking their shoulders and gazing wide-eyed at her surroundings.

“What a loon,” I say aloud, switching channels as I do.

[October 6]

The brunette woman didn’t even mention the weather today.

Five days after the first case of amnesia was spotted at a subway station, the count reaches six cases for today alone, each exhibiting similar symptoms. Victims are being cared for by the best doctors available, who are working to understand whether these cases are related. Call 1800-U-DONATE to support your local hospitals. Tune in tomorrow morning to get the latest updates on this strange phenomenon.

The brunette woman says her name and something else about subscribing to their premium news provider, but I’ve stopped listening by then. I’m staring at the landline on my bedside table. I pick it up and dial my son’s number. He doesn’t pick up. I start to dial again, and then I shake my head and set the phone down, my arm aching from the exertion.

[October 10]

My caretaker never came to my house today.

The toll is quickly rising for the inexplicable amnestic phenomenon that has swept the northern coast, with the count reaching over 100 new cases today in our city alone. Researchers are recommending that all individuals stay home until more is known about the causes of this disease. Again, it is recommended that you do not leave your homes until further notice. 

The police department was called today to investigate a school which was under invasion by a herd of deer, who apparently travelled over 50 miles from the nearest rural area and are now wandering unrestrained through the city. Please take caution to avoid these creatures until they are able to be returned to their home.

When I glance outside, I could swear there’s a tree outside my window that wasn’t there yesterday.

[October 18]

The statewide quarantine remains in place today as cases of amnesia skyrocket, among the other abnormalities that are prompting locals to wonder, “is this the apocalypse?” 

Wildlife continues to roam throughout the abandoned urban streets, with reports from local wildlife biologists saying that migrational patterns are mirroring those from over one hundred years ago. Take care to keep your windows and doors locked, as there have been several reports of birds and other creatures taking up inhabitation in unattended apartments. If there is a knock at your door, it is recommended that you do not answer—hospitals are running out of space to properly monitor amnesiacs, and several patients have taken to roaming from door-to-door throughout residential areas. These patients exhibit no signs of recognizing their surroundings nor do they seem to have any finite path in mind. It is still unknown whether this disease is contagious. If you come across a victim, call authorities immediately. 

I haven’t seen my caretaker in ten days. I’ve been living off of ready-made meals from my freezer and soup cans, though I don’t dare wonder what happens once those run out. Part of me wonders how bad it could really be to go to the corner store across the street and stock up on supplies—partially because it’s been oddly easy to pull myself in and out of my wheelchair the past few days. I almost think that wheeling my way out of the house and 100 yards to the market wouldn’t be too hard. On the other hand, my mind is still stuck on the young woman who appeared outside my window yesterday and pressed her face against the glass, frantic eyes darting back and forth around my room. All I could do was stare at her until she finally pulled her face back, dazed, and continued in her trance.

It wasn’t the fear that shook me so much. I’ve aged past the point of being afraid of other people. But I can’t stop thinking about her eyes: wide open and completely blank. They flitted back and forth in a stilted, unnatural sort of way—as if she had forgotten so much that she didn’t even recognize the commodities surrounding her. As if the world itself was unfamiliar to her.

[October 20]

I woke up this morning to a tree branch growing through my window. I don’t even remember opening the window, but maybe I’m losing it too.

The city’s infrastructure is crumbling at the foundation as the remnants of years-dead trees have begun regrowing at rapid, almost supernatural, rates. According to researchers, tree growth patterns are reminiscent of woodlands from just over one hundred years ago, when a small rural community was all that occupied this region. It’s as if nature is overlooking the fact that civilization has ever been here..

I chuckle at this. Even the plants are forgetting things.

[October 25]

A different news anchor has replaced the brunette woman. I recognize her from somewhere, but I’m not sure where. Whether this is a symptom of the amnesia, or I’m simply going senile, I can’t say.

The entire northern coast remains under quarantine this week as case counts snowball and scientists remain baffled by the causes of this phenomenon. A number of major cities along the northeastern seaboard are becoming unrecognizable, as plant and animal life completely overtake the architectural framework of former homes and businesses. 

The Department of Agriculture, after numerous calls to action from the public and media, has begun testing experimental delivery drones in order to provide food and necessities to those in these areas who are still sheltering within their homes.

I watched one of the drones go by outside my window earlier this morning. A hopeful but irrational part of me wondered if it would stop at my door, but the drone flew out of my eyesight before I could see which way it was going. Haltingly, I placed a foot on the ground and pulled myself into my wheelchair, wheeling my way over to the window as fast as I could. The windowsill, though, was frustratingly just above my eye level.

With a rush of conviction, I placed both hands firmly on the armrests of my wheelchair, and pushed myself up until I could see the whole street through my window. Slowly, hesitatingly, I removed my hands from the chair and stood there before my window, staring after a drone that was long out of sight.

The last time I stood up was four months ago.

[November 1—One month since the first case of amnesia.]

I’ve gotten used to living in an apocalypse. The drones stop by my house occasionally, on a lucky day. But otherwise, my pantry is ironically well-stocked for a person who didn’t expect to live past this year. I’ve gotten used to the solitude—in fact, I got used to that long before my city fell headfirst into Armageddon. And I’ve gotten used to the silence. So much so that I didn’t notice at first when the phone started to ring.

After a moment’s hesitation, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed—an action that’s becoming increasingly effortless—and I pick up the phone from the bedside table and press it against my ear.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” A pause. “We haven’t talked in a while.”

It is my son speaking on the other line.

“I know. You haven’t called me,” I reply, then wince—definitely relapsing on the scumbag tendencies.

“Yes,” he replies, his voice tinged with… guilt? “I guess I just forgot.”

[November 2]

From within the cities that populate the coastal districts of our nation, cries of help seem to be ignored by a country that hesitates to reach out to what could be hotspots of the most dangerous disease the world has ever seen. While the income of federal resources to the northern coast remains steady, it’s unknown how much longer the government can afford to send commodities in bulk to cities that seem to be dissolving right under our fingertips. Several citizens have been spotted fleeing these cities, against national health warnings. Yet witnessing these escapees is prompting those of us remaining to wonder—will the rest of the world forget about us?

[November 8]

There’s a hint of sunshine coming in through my window today, and reflected on my bedsheets are the leaves of the tree that lives in my window (it seems to be thriving, by the way). The corner store across the street from my apartment is no longer recognizable. There is a cluster of rose bushes that grows in front of the door, and the interior was long ago emptied out by a few raccoons.

I have gotten used to watching people walk past my window.

Sometimes I recognize them, like the businessmen who used to walk to work past my building every day. They walk differently now. Not purposeful any longer, but aimless. And oddly, part of me thinks that they look content. Maybe that’s wishful thinking. Or maybe I really am going crazy. But there’s one face that wanders past my window this morning which is undeniably, painfully recognizable.

My door has remained locked ever since my caretaker stopped coming, nearly a month ago now.

I stand up out of my bed, and I unlock it.

I open the door, and I step outside. I leave my wheelchair behind.

He is a little ways ahead of me and it takes a moment to catch up before I place a hand on his shoulder. He turns, slowly, to face me. He looks older, but his hair is the same as it was when he was little: light brown and persistently rumpled, as if he has been playing a particularly rowdy game of tag. I have not seen my son in three years and he is standing in front of me. 

“Hello,” he says. “What’s your name?”

It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to someone. I wonder for a moment if I’ve forgotten how.

I reply, “You don’t know my name?”

He furrows his brows. “I must have forgotten.”

When I don’t respond, he turns around and continues on his amble.

For the first time since I stepped outside, I turn around and take in my surroundings. What once was a haven of concrete has transformed, in the span of a month, into something completely foreign. Amidst the sparse crowds of wanderers, squirrels and lizards crawl about the now-mossy pathways. A car is parked in the middle of what used to be a road. Its exterior is overshadowed by the maple tree that has emerged from within the middle of the asphalt. Its branches are caught in an open doorway that reads across the top, “ ANK OF A ERI CA.” The next building over has three doors that are painted bright blue, and held open by some kind of shrub that has grown in the middle of the entryway. And as I turn around myself, I realize that there are dozens of doors surrounding me that stand ajar, and I can’t remember which one is mine.