Shelter
It’s over. A billion people up in smoke just like that. And for what – world peace? There’s a funny correlation between the number of times they say the word Peace and the number of megatons of high explosives they drop on the people next door.
How many Hiroshimas have we had now? How many times has the siren gone off on my phone and I’ve run into the nearest shelter and waited with a half-dozen strangers to see if this is the Big One.
No matter how many times we emerge unscathed, blinking like spring pups, there’s always the annoying itch you can’t scratch, the little voice saying maybe next time, it’s the real one. Maybe the Air Defence Shield won’t intercept them all and your body and mind will be vapourised, melted, incinerated, or whatever happens at 100,000,000°C.
But then I tell myself, I say Josi, it’s time to man the fuck up, girl. 6 people are relying on you to make their tea. 6 little faces lined up on the floor. 6 little mouths that need feeding 6 times a day.
So I picture their faces when the sirens go off and you hear the skree-whoosh-thud of the ADS rockets finding their mark and maybe even someone has a bottle of something we can pass around in the dark.
The worst was that one time. It feels so vulnerable sitting there with a complete stranger, totally cut off from the outside world. My mum told my never shelter on my own, but what can I do, go back up and risk the trolls catching me out?
It’s the devil you know and the devil you don’t nowadays. I don’t know. I guess I’m saying I was surprised, is all, when I found out there’s worse things than being nuked.
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