You Can Never Go Back, But Neither Can You Leave—Part 8

It was dusk on what Emory recalled as a Saturday. She was on the backyard patio in cutoffs and a bikini top, staring through the smoke of her shrinking cigarette at the bomb shelter.

What if I just open it? she wondered.

Then, she imagined three different timelines: one where she didn’t open it, one where she did and was disappointed that it was all gross and empty, and one wherein she opened it but … couldn’t picture what was inside.

With a frustrated sigh, she flicked her cigarette away, stood up, dusted her ass off, and said, “Enough of this shit,” and stomped in the semi-tall grass over to the shelter.

She grabbed the handle and turned. But it would not open. It was like it was stuck or something. She wanted to try to force it, but couldn’t find decent purchase on anything other than the handle. With some disappointment, she wondered if it were a safety feature of the installation, to prevent outsiders from coming in. Or maybe it was just broken. It was very old, after all.

Emory gave up, and went back inside, masturbated, and made herself dinner.

More next week!

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