Fiction by Melissa Witcher
Tory’s lips form the first syllable but no sound comes from her throat. Conversation swirls around them, voices rising and falling, people coming and going. She pinches the bridge of her nose. She recently read that there were three systems necessary for voice: the respiratory, phonatory, and resonatory systems. She only vaguely recalls learning about the resonatory system, and wonders if that was why she can’t say sorry.
She is not an overly apologetic woman. In 3rd grade, she was the new kid in a suburban school where everyone knew each other. At lunch, she sat at one of the long formica tables in the cafeteria and said something funny. A girl with silky brown hair and a striped blue shirt had laughed, milk coming out of her nose. It never occurred to Tory to apologize—she wanted to do it again. She looked it up to better understand; it happened because of the uvula.
She looks across the round table and Chris’ pursed lips make it obvious that he is waiting for an apology. If she doesn’t say it now it will require further explanation and more extensive effort later. She puts up one finger and balances her head up and down. Her throat is dry and her tongue burns as it pushes against the back of her teeth. She tries again, her mouth opens, but the only noise she produces is the wet sound of her tongue moving.
The offense occurred during a simple thought exercise: who is best equipped to survive the apocalypse? It is no longer a hypothetical situation, with global pandemics and the climate crisis and the rise of machine intelligence, they are literally living through the test run, but it is still far off enough (5-10-15 years?) that the topic wavers between necessary and humorous.
Tory has no desire to survive chaos. She is fine with no hot water, it’s better for her skin, but no running water? No electricity or functioning food supply chain, no ready-made clothes, no medical services, no random internet searches to explain bodily functions? Really truly, no thank you. As such, her stakes in these discussions are very low. If zombies are a real thing, or a meteor hits, or fungi eat brains, or a virus wipes out 80% of the population, she wants to be the first to go.
She picks up her glass of pop, Vernors for an upset stomach made worse by Chris’ apocalyptic aspirations. The glass is wet with condensation and bubbles race to the top, desperate to explode. She gulps down the amber liquid fast, swallows hard, and opens her mouth before closing it in defeat.
Something that never ceases to amaze her is how intensely others want to survive. It shouldn’t surprise her—history is filled with humans enduring impossible-horrible-terrifying situations because of the sheer will to live—but she is still caught off guard by how ardently people insist they can do the same. Chris is one of those people; her comment that his quick texting fingers and a charming ability to never pay full portion when they ate out won’t get you very far when cell towers and diners don’t exist hadn’t gone over well.
Instead of agreeing, the group fell silent and his nostrils flared. When he’d jutted his chin out and crossed his arms over his chest she knew that an apology, not deep but at least sincere, needed to be made. She hurt his feelings, wounded his self-image, questioned his very essence, and he wanted her to take it back. Even if she was most likely right.
She opens her mouth again and knows it will not happen.
Instead, her burp is loud enough to silence those around them and startle Chris into dropping his arms to his sides. During the ensuing collective laughter, she makes eye contact with him and mouths the word. He nods in reluctant acceptance and taps out a message on his cell phone quicker than she ever can. She smiles with tears in her eyes, relieved that an accumulation of air in her esophagus diffused the tension and that their inevitable deaths won’t happen with any lingering resentment.
Melissa Witcher (she/ela) is a self-taught writer, collagist, muralist, and embroidery artist. She was born in Brazil, raised in the U.S. and has lived in São Paulo since 2011. Her writing has appeared in 805 Lit + Art and Panorama Journal.
