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This is a blog post from 3157 written by Elle Mullins, about a visit to her old apartment in Brooklyn, New York.
You never quite get why people hoard every item they own until your cat breaks his favorite bowl and wouldn’t eat in anything else.
It came with a set that we bought way back, when Soleil and I were still living in Brooklyn. I don’t even remember when we got it or who picked it, only that it was unremarkable and just so happened to be Ham-sam’s food bowl centuries later. Maybe it was shaped in a way that’s the easiest for his tongue, or some other arbitrary cat niche I’m not understanding.
Ham-sam’s lunch in Ham-sam’s bowl, or no food at all.
Either way! After an arduous search online, I decided a visit back to our old place was the best way to find its matching pair.
Our building down at Fort Greene was about 8 floors total, and we lived on the 3rd. The water reaches halfway across the windows of the 7th floor, where I’ve docked my boat and prepared for the cold, dark descent.
When everyone evacuated back in 2072, most people were still stuck in denial. I remember seeing the landlord downstairs carrying airtight foam to seal their windows with, hoping to return here once the water subsides.
The water was ankle-deep then.
Needless to say, the water damage only got worse as I dove down deeper. His window stood no chance against the invasive flood.
I was thankful to find that we had left our windows open. Even with nanos, I’d prefer not to deal with broken shards under all this water pressure. It was inviting, almost, an invite we left so thoughtlessly then.
What’s up, all-consuming flood, here to collect our dues?
I clicked on my head light, and began my search. The beam of light resonated comfortingly against the dark, grimy green, and memories flooded my mind.
That corner, where all our friends tried to jump onto one bean bag and exploded it. The kitchen counter we both hated, where we used to make elaborate quiches to go with Soleil’s shakes.
The building remembered us. Erosion and coral growth couldn’t erase the skidmarks across the hallway and the dent in the wall at the end of it from those stupid derby practises.
It didn’t take me long enough to find the thing of ceramics, which I carefully removed and secured into my backpack, leaving only a circular stain on the shelf.
I could’ve left from the window then, but the nostalgia called, and I’m never one to refuse a call to adventure. It led me inwards to the familiar depth of my apartment, deeper and darker.
So I swam further in, exploring the rest of the apartment. It took some effort, but I eventually squeezed through the door out my apartment and headed down the dark hallway.
I was several layers away from the surface, so my headlight was the only light source shining my way. Vegetation had invited themselves inside, coral colonies nested themselves throughout protruding surfaces along the walls, where there once was door frames and stairwells. Kelp growth sway gently, brushing against my legs, drifting with the current.
I continued down the hallway, recalling other tenants who lived with us back then.
When the flood first began, there was a fleeting few weeks where the residents of 4th floor vaguely resembled a community.
The old lady across from us would make stew, and shyly inquired about an invitation to the rager “you girls are having”. The personal trainer down the hall offered to catsit Ham-sam while we were away, despite being lethally allergic to him. We’d left numbers before we all moved, promising to have reunions some time down the line.
When I turned around I realized I’d lost the door where I had entered. Along the hallway, my apartment seemed indistinguishable from every other room.
People often say they knew their childhood home like the back of their hands, and could navigate it with their eyes closed. That simply isn’t true anymore, not when you account for our flawed memories. We’re constantly wiping ourselves clean, molding what used to be familiar foreign.
I tried every door down 4th floor. The currents must have pushed it shut, and no force could budge them from the opposite direction.
I don’t think I ever called any of my neighbors. How would I explain Soleil? They’re all blank faces to me, now, I only remember their collective fear when the flood inevitably came.
Realization sunk into my chest when my headlight went out. I probably won’t be going home to feed Ham-sam when dinner time comes.
I was completely submerged in the dark, cold seawater. Without the beam of light to tether me to the ground, the walls felt impossibly far.
The first thing they teach you about solitary exploration was how to save yourself if you get stuck. The nanos can drag you out of imminent dangers like a burning car or a collapsing building, sure, and they’ll make sure you never go hungry or cold, least of all hurt!
But simply being stuck is not an imminent danger.
So if you ever get stuck, it’d last… uh. A while!
An hour? A day? A week? A month? A year? A decade? A century?
There were only two or three boats I crossed on my trip into the city. I don’t think anyone ever comes to this part of town. In retrospect: nobody came for me that day. I don’t know how long I’d be down there for had I not clawed my way out.
At least someone might notice if Ham-sam was hungry. My neighbors always complain how he meows too loud.
I feel the darkness closing in. It envelops me like a mother’s womb, like I always belonged there. I could make a home here, maybe? I thought for a split moment. and…
The worst thing about the dark is not how it traps you. Not how it blinds you, not how it isolates you or confuses you. None of that is scary. None of that poses any threat to me.
The worst thing about the dark was how it forces you into yourself. And it is horrible not because my thoughts are horrible, but because it’s..
…it’s not that bad? but it’s-
…absolutely fucking boring.
It was impossible to perceive time in this sensory deprivation chamber, but the boredom of the wait was gnawing, and waiting for help felt like forever.
The first thing they teach you about solitary exploration was how to save yourself.
It seemed like a counterintuitive idea at first, but if you’re not in imminent danger – homemade is fine.
I took my final breath of air, and let go of my mouth piece, feeling the residual oxygen explode into bubbles past my face as I drop my dive tank onto the floor.
Good , I know which way is up now.
Inhale.
Easier said than done! There was something unnatural and wrong about allowing your lungs to take water, your body reflexively rejects it. It’s a fight against yourself to force yourself to breathe because you know it is fine but what bubbles up isn’t air anymore it is panic –
Inhale.
The briny, cold water burns as it is pushed into your lungs. For a split second, despite having been immortal for so long, something instinctual comes over you and you think oh my god, I’m gonna die –
But nanos know better.
The water seemed like it was sparkling. In my delusion, it felt like a cruel, hopeful vision for every drown victim. When panic subsided, I realized every speckle of dust did indeed glow and shimmer, illuminating the hallway. They form a trail of light, leading to the emergency exit stairwell.
Inhale.
My lungs took in water, but it wasn't burning anymore. It was an odd sensation, the water still bitter on my tongue, cool current still foreign in my system. But breathing became almost normal again, and the glittering bots seemed to reassure me that it was going to be fine.
That I knew already, of course.
I would’ve laughed if there were any air left in me.
Exhale.
I bashed the handle in with my tank, and kicked down the door, kicking up a flurry of collected grime and glitter.
I wondered if my lungs glowed from the inside. Perhaps I don’t mind staying here a little longer. There are many things to explore…
About the Author: Elle Mullins was an esteemed roller derby skater, notable for being the captain of the Brooklyn Red Devils from 2043-2069. She went missing and was pronounced dead on an ice-skating trip to Lake Baikal.