The Dystopian Diaries

by K. W. Callahan

  I tried cramming some cloth into the hole, but it only seemed to backfire and make the hole bigger, so I stopped. Pieces of the hull kept cracking off when I tried to wedge in a big enough piece of cloth to stem the flow of water. Now the resulting hole is probably several inches in diameter. I could hear Lucy, Fred, and Ethel laughing at me all the while. Sure, why should they care? They don’t have such problems. They’re living fat and happy in their bucket wondering why I should ever want to spend a minute on land let alone a lifetime. The least they could have done is offered to give me a hand, or in this case, a fin. But oh no, they’re too good for that. I guess I shouldn’t take it personally. I haven’t known them that long. And even though I’m providing free room and board, I guess they really don’t owe me any free labor. Still, it’s hard. They know so much about water, and I so little. You would think they’d at least throw me a little free advice to help guide my work.

  They’re so FRUSTRATING! It really is maddening living with them sometimes. At least they eat less than those other people, the people on the boat. Those boaters came and took more food than Lucy, Fred, and Ethel have eaten in their entire lives!

  Okay, I’m going back inside now. While I love being warm in the sun, the thought of those people returning, or new people finding me here, churns my stomach. They could kill me for my food, or worse yet, they could take Lucy, Fred, and Ethel and cannibalize them for food. The thought terrifies me.

  September 27th

  3:13 p.m.

  That boat was back this afternoon! It didn’t really do much, it just sat there about a mile out like usual. It was there for several hours and then left without approaching the lighthouse.

  I asked Fred and Ethel (Lucy’s not talking to me right now – more on that in a minute) what they thought about it, but they didn’t have any bright ideas. Personally, I think they’re back to watch me. They want to see if I’m still around. Then they’ll wait until night and attack me to try to steal my supplies. I’ll have to be extra cautious to make sure I don’t alert them to my presence. Maybe they’ll think I’ve packed up my stuff and left. I certainly don’t want them to think I want them coming back to beg for more food.

  As I mentioned earlier, Lucy isn’t speaking to me. I think she’s mad about something. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but something definitely has her upset. She’s not eating like she normally does. Maybe she has a cold. Maybe she has the flu. I hadn’t thought about that. Can fish get the flu? Can fish get the SU FLU? God, I hope she’ll be okay. I wish there was something I could do, but I’m not sure how to treat a sick fish. I guess I could take the bucket outside. Maybe she needs some sunlight. But then I risk being seen by the boat, and that could be all of our undoing. I guess I’ll have to go out anyway to get them some fresh water, but I usually do that at night, under the cover of darkness. I could chance it and do it during the day just to get them outside.

  Maybe they’re just down in the dumps like me. They’re trapped in an environment similar to mine, stuck in a container with no escape. It’s tough. In a way, I feel that I should let them go. Am I playing God? At least I have the power to free them. I could change their situation even though I can’t change mine. But then I’d be losing my only friends, and I’m just not sure I’m strong enough to do that right now.

  Add another dilemma to my growing list. Damaged canoe, ever-dwindling food supply, freezing cold lighthouse in which to live, the return of the boat, and now I need to ponder whether to release my only friends in the world. What else could go wrong?

  I came to this place to escape my troubles, and now I seem to have a longer list than any time in my prior life. Tsk, tsk. What would Thoreau say?

  September 30th

  12:10 p.m.

  It’s been three days since my last entry.

  Lucy died.

  I’m not sure why she died, but the other morning I found her floating belly up. Fred and Ethel were hovering near the other side of the bucket, as far as they could get from her.

  I wonder what it’s like for fish. It seems like they understand that something isn’t right, that they don’t want to be near one of their dead friends. But what do they really comprehend about life, about death, about their own existence here? Anything? Nothing? It seems like they understood that she was dead, that they didn’t want anything to do with her bloated corpse. But was there anything else to the proximity they put between themselves and Lucy’s cold, gray, floating fish body?

  I don’t know. All I know is that it was extremely sad. We had a funeral for her. We all said a few words.

  Since then, I’ve been doing my best to stay busy. Every day now, I wake up and make five complete trips up and down the lighthouse staircase. I make five more at lunch, and then again at dinner. This helps to expend some energy. Even then, I find that I’m having trouble sleeping. Therefore, I’ve taken to working as lighthouse keeper. At regular intervals throughout the night, I check the non-existent light in the tower, and at times, I even pretend to replace the bulb.

  These processes make me feel productive even though I’m anything but. Between that, cooking meals, feeding the fish, taking inventory of my supplies, watching out the windows for signs of approaching boats, and trying to stay warm, I’m managing to kill a lot of time here. But the days, as well as the nights, are still incredibly long.

  I’ve also been feeding the fish more so they don’t get mad and stop talking to me again. I don’t know if I could take that. I need all the moral support I can get here just to make it through another day.

  I’ve never had suicidal thoughts…until now. But I find myself wondering what the point of all this is. Thank god for the fish. Knowing that I need to wake up and feed them each morning is about the only thing that has stopped me from putting the cold steel barrel of the .44 to my temple and squeezing slowly.

  I know that probably sounds terrible; and Thoreau would balk at the thought of diminishing my time on this planet by one wonderful millisecond, but sometimes I just don’t care. He didn’t have to go through THIS! I DO! And frankly, it sucks! It sucks in so many ways. The boredom sucks! The loneliness sucks! The cold sucks! The food is starting to suck! The isolation sucks! The conversation sucks (no offense to Fred and Ethel)! And life in general pretty much sucks!

  October 1st

  10:02 a.m.

  The first day of October has dawned gray and blustery. It’s only about 30 degrees, and there is a stiff wind blowing in from the west. The waves are pretty high right now, bashing my poor lighthouse’s foundation, but they are cresting below the top of the platform. Of course! Now that I’ve moved all my supplies upstairs, the water stays low. Oh well.

  At least the large waves will keep any boats – and the prying eyes that accompany them – away. While in some ways, I long for companionship, the thought of people coming here frightens me. Guess it’s a no-win situation.

  2:14 p.m.

  Something strange is going on. I keep hearing loud, banging noises coming from downstairs. It sounds like someone might be trying to break in.

  I asked the fish what they thought it might be since they’re more familiar with the area, but they were of little assistance. Fred agreed that it might be someone trying to get inside the lighthouse. Ethel dismissed my concerns, saying that it was likely just the waves hitting against the side of the lighthouse platform. I told her that I knew how waves hitting the lighthouse sounded by this point in my extended stay here, but she thought she knew better – little know-it-all that she is.

  Fred on the other hand remains steadfast in his belief that something just isn’t right. I tend to side with him on the issue, although I’m not about to say that in front of Ethel. I’d find myself on the shit list with her again. She probably wouldn’t talk to me for days.

  I think I’m going to sneak downstairs and check things out for myself. I don’t really want to. And I’ll have to be careful not to let Ethel see me (she might take offense), but I need to know what the heck is going on do
wn there. I haven’t seen any boats outside, and the waves make it seem unlikely that anyone would have arrived in such conditions, but I’d better find out one way or the other, just to ease my worried mind if nothing else.

  2:49 p.m.

  So I figured out what was making noise. When I went downstairs, I realized that the sounds weren’t coming from the first floor as I initially thought, which made sense since they sounded somewhat muffled. As I stood for a moment in the first level’s darkness, I sensed that the sounds were coming from below me in the lighthouse basement. This realization did little to put my mind at ease. I had no earthly idea what could be making the noises, and at first take, nothing good came to mind. But I forced myself to forge ahead, knowing that I had to figure out what was going on in order to protect myself as well as the fish. Mostly, I found myself wondering if someone might have somehow managed to get inside the lighthouse without my knowing it, and had taken refuge down inside the watery depths of the darkened foundation. It was a frightening thought, but one I needed to confront.

  As I quietly crept toward the metal hatch in the first level’s floor, I gripped my .44 tightly, hoping against hope that I wouldn’t have to use it, but knowing that I very well may.

  My thoughts kept flashing back and forth between what might lay in wait and how it would feel to shoot or even KILL a person. I prayed that if I had to shoot at someone, I would only injure them enough to incapacitate them, not kill them. But then what? They might be as good as dead out here without medical supplies or attention. Maybe shooting to kill would be the more humane action in our current environment. Maybe I should have let myself be shot like Oscar. But I wouldn’t want an ending like Oscar’s. I’d want it to be over quickly. Put a round in my head and be done with it. Don’t let it linger, like I’m lingering out here on my concrete island.

  Anyway, as I opened the hatch and shined my light down inside, I didn’t see anyone. But this time, the space seemed brighter than it had been before. As I tremulously mounted the ladder and descended into the darkened depths, I soon realized why.

  Thankfully, the sounds weren’t those of someone trying to break into the lighthouse or already having broken in as Fred had thought. But Ethel wasn’t exactly right either, it wasn’t just waves crashing against the side of the lighthouse, although that was a part of the equation.

  I didn’t make it all the way down the ladder due to the amount of water inside the space, but I did have time to make an inspection of the area with my flashlight. It appears that there is some sort of bilge pump system mounted near one wall. I have a feeling that this is the contraption from which the metal pipe on the lighthouse foundation exterior (the one making all that banging noise when I first arrived) protruded. It sits on an elevated platform that is about the only thing in the space not under at least a foot or two of water.

  The spot from which the noises are issuing is the lake-facing wall. The wall has been breached, apparently by the force of the waves crashing against it as opposed to by some person or people. The hole created is probably about a foot wide by maybe a foot-and-a-half tall. An occasional wave will break against that spot in the wall and make a whopping, thumping sort of noise that echoes and reverberates through the basement space.

  I’m thankful that the sounds are nothing more, but it does give me pause for concern and raise a whole new issue. I’m left wondering just how stable the lighthouse actually is. I mean, is the entire structure going to tumble into the lake, taking me and the fish with it? It’s not like I have any way of knowing just how sound this place was before I arrived. I’m sure the government wasn’t conducting a whole lot of maintenance on it recently, at least by the looks of things. And there may well be a reason for all those “No trespassing” signs posted everywhere. They may have been for more than just keeping fishermen from making a mess of the place or to keep partying teens from smoking pot here. It may have been to keep people safe from pieces of the lighthouse (or the whole thing for that matter) from collapsing on them.

  It’s not like I needed another worry, but I guess I have it. I’ll have to keep a close eye on this hole. Hopefully it won’t get too much bigger, but October is here, and November is coming. And I know the storms on the Great Lakes are infamous for their November gales. It could get really rough here, even rougher than the past two storms have been. That’s a frightening prospect.

  The basement reminds me of a prison now. The rebar in the hole makes it look like a window frame – a window frame created from concrete and steel. Then again, this whole damn place is starting to remind me of a prison – a prison of my own making.

  October 2nd

  11:49 a.m.

  Today is gray and cold – only about 29 degrees outside. It doesn’t feel like it’s much warmer inside.

  The weather and the waves have calmed. The water in the lighthouse basement continues to drain. I’m not sure exactly how it’s draining, but it’s draining nonetheless. I’ve paired periodic checks on this area of the lighthouse with my regular walks up and down the stairs, as well as my other duties.

  The hole in the wall down there seems to have stabilized. I think now that the waves aren’t pounding against it, it’s holding its own. Still, it’s another hole in this place letting in cold air, something I definitely don’t need more of.

  Fred and Ethel seem very lethargic lately. I wonder if the cold is taking a toll on them too. I thought about returning them to the lake, but I can’t bear to part with them. At the same time, I worry about keeping them. I wouldn’t want my selfish needs to take precedent over their good health.

  My supplies are holding out for the time being, but I’m beginning to tire of eating the same old stuff. There’s only so much one can do with rice, beans, and pasta. And while my jerky supply helps liven things up, it’s not the same as fresh meat. I don’t care what Thoreau says, there’s more to eating than just fueling the body. I guess I shouldn’t complain. At least I have food, which is probably more than can be said for many out there.

  October 3rd

  1:05 p.m.

  The people in the boat are back again…at least I think it’s the same boat. They’re sitting in the same spot they usually sit, so I’m pretty sure it’s them.

  I wonder what they want. I’ll bet they’ve been out on the lake, murdering Fred and Ethel’s friends. Horrid people! Murderers! Just like those people on land who killed Oscar. Murderers – all of them! I can’t ever believe that I once thought fish were just dumb creatures, let alone that I used to EAT them! I’m repentant now, but to think. Disgusting, just disgusting!

  3:13 p.m.

  The boat approached the lighthouse, but I didn’t go outside. I’m sure they just want more food. I loaded my shotgun and was ready for them to try something, but they didn’t. They just sat beside the landing for a while and then headed back out to deeper waters again.

  I’m sure they were hoping I’d come out and provide for them, but I don’t trust them. They might try pulling something to take my supplies, or worse yet, hurt Fred and Ethel.

  I hope they just go away. My stomach churns each time I look outside and see that boat just sitting there, out on open waters...watching…waiting…lurking.

  5:32 p.m.

  As daylight fades, the boat is still sitting out there, just sitting, doing nothing. It creeps me out. I hope that come morning, it’s gone…for GOOD would be nice, but I’d take just gone for now. It makes me uncomfortable…uneasy. I want to know what the hell they want, but at the same time, I don’t. I just wish they’d leave me alone. Can’t they find someone else to bother? I think their presence is even bothering Fred and Ethel. Ethel flopped in the bucket just a little while ago, splashing water onto the floor.

  I can tell that she’s just as unnerved as I am by the boat being here.

  October 4th

  8:01 a.m.

  They’re still out there! That stupid boat is STILL sitting there! I mean, what are they trying to do? What in God’s name are they waiting fo
r?! Is this like a Waco situation or something? Are they trying some sort of psychological warfare tactics like they used to try to drive the Branch Davidians out of their compound? Is that what they’re trying to do to me, drive me out of here so they can attack me and take my supplies?

  Or maybe they’re dead…or at least dying from the flu inside their boat. God, then that boat could be out there forever…or at least until the next big storm comes along and either sinks it or drags it away. We could be left with these kinds of questions for weeks!!!

  I don’t know if we can take it. It’s just too much. The fish keep splashing about in their bucket. I know it’s bothering them like crazy too.

  Guess there’s not much we can do about the situation. We just have to watch, wait, and hope they eventually go away.

  I WISH THEY’D JUST LEAVE!!!

  October 5th

  8:17 a.m.

  The boat is still out there, but I don’t want to talk about it. I’d rather talk about my new friend. Yes, I said, “new friend!”