“Knock, Knock”

My eyes lazily peel open and my lungs yearn for fresh air. As I roll over to search for the light switch in the dark, I feel each of my muscles and joints waking up after a restless night of sleep.

Momentarily blinded by the harsh, fluorescent light, I make my way to the stove and place the kettle on to boil.

The figure I left behind begins to squirm, and finally pops her bleary-eyed head free of the bedsheets.

Her eyes flicker towards mine, hold for a second, then continue to scan the room. Looking at her, my body fills with warmth, a familiar warmth I can only attribute to comfortability. Such as the comfort of my mother’s homemade rich bolognaise, or of a burning fireplace belonging in my childhood home.

There’s an ease with her, it’s not like it was on the outside, and it feels only natural to spend days on end with her, doing nothing but staring at each other and at the plain walls of the room in turn.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”
Filling two large mugs to the brim with boiling water, I drift back to the comfort of the bed, we sip on the bitter liquid under the covers like schoolchildren with midnight snacks.

*******

She smiles, then says, “We should get up sometime”.

“But why? Can’t we continue to lie here for a while longer?”

A small groan escapes her lips, reaching my ear softly and making the hairs on my neck stand.

“Yeah, I guess we can. There’s really nothing else to do is there?”, she says, almost disappointed.

Trying not to think too much about the situation, we both scan the room with hopes of some sort of distraction or entertainment, finding only dull white walls and next-to-useless appliances. It seemed to me, every aspect of the room, down to the last atom, had been inspected and analysed by our eyes. There was nothing new, nothing interesting and nowhere to go. It didn’t always feel this way, but this realisation was something which could not be escaped once encountered.

The first day we arrived, we were full of hope and relief. For days, we felt safe in the walls of the room, relishing each other and our isolation from the chaos of the world outside. As days turned into weeks, and our food began to diminish, we began to feel restless and utterly hopeless. However well-equipped the room appeared, with a simple sink and toilet, white washed cupboards, a double bed with white linen and a small transistor radio, it had transformed from our safe-haven into a dismal and suffocating space.

Sluggishly dragging myself from the bed, I locate the radio, our only connection to the outside, in the corner of the room. Without any sense of time, we were unaware of when the scheduled updates would be aired and often used up precious battery only to hear static. Switching it on, we listen to the crackling for a few minutes until, thankfully, a clear voice cuts through.

“This is Melbourne’s 10AM emergency broadcast. The group of extremists have progressed and now have control of the Werribee, Sunshine, Altona and Footscray areas. They seem to be advancing quickly, taking participants of the same-sex movement as prisoners. The alt-right group appear to have tendencies similar to the 2018 anti-gay campaign lead by the Panson Conservative Party. However, they are taking a more violent approach and appear to be mercilessly killing those who stand in the way of their regime to exterminate homosexuality. Tune in at 11AM for more updates.”

Wide mouthed, we listen again to the static for minutes after the programme, waiting and hoping that what we heard was not true. It could not be true.

“It’s worse than we thought”.
“At least we’ll be safe here, we have another few days at least at the rate they are moving before they reach Camberwell. They have to overthrow the city first,” I suggest, trying to calm her down but hardly believing the words myself.

“I think we should leave.”

“It would be too risky, you know that, we are not safe anywhere but we are safest here for the time being.”
“I think we should leave”, she says again.

“We’re not leaving, where would we even –“

“We should leave.” She says finally, deadpan.

*****

Toothbrush, t-shirt, underwear, 3 cans of baked beans. We shove the remainders of our belongings, of our livelihoods, into our pillowcases. Softened by use, the thin cotton of our make-shift bags strain to keep everything contained. Wearied by questions of where and when, and “why are they doing this?”, I strain trying to contain my fear.

*****

“This is Melbourne’s 11AM emergency broadcast. The extremists, who we have been informed call themselves Panson’s Army, have advanced further, taking over Brunswick and Coburg, although facing fierce government resistance in the CBD. Those underground in hiding have remained safe and secure while the violence spills onto the streets at ground level. More to –“

The radio cuts off short, completely exhausted of its battery life.

Simultaneously, we turn sharply to look at one another. Searching for a response but instead finding the other jittering with fear and riddled with bloodshot eyes and confusion. Placing my belongings on the ground, I wrap my arms around her and squeezing her close I try to think of something hopeful to say. I can’t and so we stand and all I hear are the sounds of her helpless, rhythmic sobs.

****

A metal clink shakes us from our condition, unaware of how much time we have let pass. Another clink follows, growing louder, draws our eyes to the ceiling. The entry door, which is padlocked from the ground level, is alive and suddenly opens its nightmarish jaws after a final deafening metallic crash.

 I try to scream but a hard, rock in my throat stops me.

They’ve found us.