Prypiat (Short Story)
It is April 26th, 1986 and today is the first day of the rest of my life.
I step outside my cramped apartment, take a deep breath, and smile. Spring has always been my favorite season, this sense of starting over permeates this time of year. Today there is something else in the air; it’s colorless, odorless, weightless, but most certainly present. I cannot describe this kind of atmosphere as humid, or sunny, or warm. I call it “hopeful.” If it’s like this tomorrow I think I’ll go for a morning jog, yes, a jog is the best way to experience this kind of weather. Five kilometers out of town, sweat pouring from my skin, the electricity running through my body syncing with the world around me. Yes, I’ve been meaning to go on a jog for quite some time. The bus arrives and I climb aboard.
I take a seat in one of the cold plastic buckets behind two older gentlemen. The chatter on the bus is much livelier today. The older men are talking about some kind of accident outside of town at the power plant. Some people seemed really nervous but most of us knew that if it was anything terrible we’d just follow the evacuation plan. My first reaction was one of almost happiness, that ugly power plant was always an eye sore on the bus ride home. One of the older men was rambling on about a cover up. I’ve heard quite a lot about conspiracies and other things lately. I’ve never really had any interest in politics. I just try to control my own little world, and besides that, what can I do? Although recently I have become dreadfully nervous about being asked my opinion of what I think of this head of state, or how I feel about this particular decree. Tomorrow, after my jog, I will go to the library and try and read up on these things. Hopefully one day I can be so well versed in my poli-sci that I can use it at those parties Yuri throws. We pass by the gigantic Ferris wheel, a true testament to human achievement. Hopefully Alena and I can ride it together one day.
I pull the string at my stop and several of us evacuate the bus and file into the office. Alena always arrives earlier than me and always greets me with a smile. She briefly talks about the explosion last night, but we both agree that such depressing conversation would only damper a beautiful day like this. She talks to me with a confidence and ease that I only pretend to have. Alena has the kind of beauty that seeps much deeper than her skin, it radiates from a place inside her soul. I bet her beauty could even be seen on X-rays. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, after my jog, and my trip to the library I am going to ask her out. We could go to the Palace of Culture and go dancing, then go over and ride that big Ferris wheel. I’d ask her today but it is such beautiful day, and I don’t want to ruin it if she rejects me.
On the bus ride home I could see the smoke from the explosion last night. I’ve always loved to look at smoke, the way it carelessly wisps and swirls. It always seems so elemental and eloquent. I use to love watching my grandfather puff away on his hand rolled cigarettes. The bright white escaping from his mouth and dancing around his head. Each puff different like a signature. The steam from the reactor used to be white like my grandfathers cigarette smoke, but today it’s black like the pipe smoke of the men at the pub. The smoke off in the distant is the most impressive I’ve ever seen. It climbs higher and higher, fusing and fornicating with the clouds above. It’s times like this I wish I could paint. Tomorrow, after I jog, go to the library, and ask out Alena I will go to my sister have her teach me how to paint. I’ll probably start with painting fruit; I hear that’s pretty easy.
I climb off the bus and scurry into my home. I put my finest suit out for tomorrow. I also take out my lucky shoes. If I’m going to win Alena I need to look my best after all. Oh, I hope she reciprocates my feeling about her! I’ve never been good with women. One minute they’ll be powering my soul, and the next, unknowingly decaying it. I shake off this pessimistic thinking, she will say yes. She will say yes. I put out my old yellow and black high school tracksuit, it’s a bit faded and small but it’ll work for my morning jog. My records rock me to sleep.
It is April 27th, 1986 and today is the first day of the rest of my life.
I get woken up at 0500 hours by my next door neighbor banging on my door. She’s a sweet old woman who cooks me dinner from time to time. She tells me to pack a bag and meet at the evacuation point at 1400 hours. She tells me the details, smirking sweetly and reassuringly. I don’t panic, and I even want to laugh at the silliness of the whole thing. Her voice has that kind of soothing in it that makes everything fine. She’s flashing some piece of paper and her teeth are clicking when she talks. Click, Click, Click. Adorable. When she leaves I go into the kitchen and open up the fridge. I throw away anything that’s already past its half-life. It wouldn’t be pleasant to come back to a smelly apartment. I start packing my bag, she told me I’d only need enough stuff for three or four days. I put on my finest suit, just in case I see Alena at the evacuation center. I take out my biggest piece of luggage but quickly put it away because it’s not even close to matching my nice suit. I take out one that is considerably smaller but looks much more appealing. I pack some clothes and put my record collection in the rest of the suitcase. I wouldn’t want thieves taking my precious American music albums.
I walk down to the evacuation center. People are rushing here and there. In a small town like this people get all riled up over every little thing. It’s just for a few days, a mild inconvenience, nothing more. The only sad part about it is I won’t be able to hold hands with Alena for almost another week. Some men in uniforms are shouting, but most of us have more sense than this and are just filing onto the buses. The only difference between today and most other days is the luggage and a bit of confusion. It’s certainly a kind of feeling I’m not accustomed to. Today there is something else in the air; it’s colorless, odorless, weightless, but certainly present. I’m not sure what to call it. As the buses roll away I lean back in my chair and look out the window. It’s almost as beautiful as yesterday.