Chernobyl

I didn’t see Dean for a long while after that. I spent my time on the cot, feeling tired, but not exactly sleepy. My mind was too active, thinking of possible ways out, possible solutions to this unsolvable math problem I’d gotten myself into, to give into the pleads of my body for rest.

There’s no way out. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do. Just make sure you survive.

I couldn’t help but let my pessimistic side take control. I was in a concrete box in some place I had no idea about. I was stuck and alone and I couldn’t do anything about it.

How am I going to get out of this?

The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to relate to Chernobyl. In 1986, the operators at the Ukrainian power plant meant to shut everything off to run tests, but their ignorance at the obvious signs of distress lead to a nuclear meltdown. By sleeping, I felt like that would just be putting me in a position of extreme vulnerability, leading me into oblivion and I wasn’t sure if I could afford that. At any point, Dean could come back and do God knows what to me. It was clear that he wasn’t all there, and it was only a matter of time before the pressure built up enough to lead to an explosion. I had to stay on my toes, watching, waiting, anticipating.

No. I needed to get to sleep. I was tired, and thinking about it was only draining my energy even more. I hated thinking about the consequences, so just like the operators at the plant, I chose to close my eyes and pretend it was all okay.

Forcing my eyes shut, I fell into a shallow sleep.

**

I don’t know how long it was after I woke up that I waited until Dean returned. See, that was the funny thing about being locked up in the room—there was no window, so there was no real way of keeping track of time. It was like being thrown into some universe that lacked the fourth dimension, and it really messed with your mind. It was disorienting not knowing when to sleep and when to wake up. I didn’t how long it had been since I’d eaten or how long I would sleep. The only way I could tell day from night was the door. Light leaked out a couple inches from under the bottom during the day, and at night, it was dark.

I missed my house. I missed my room, my window, my clock, my mom. I wondered if anyone was looking for me—if anyone missed me at all.

I really wanted to go home.

Tears dripped down my cheeks the more I thought about it, but once I heard the engine outside, I made sure to wipe them away and settle my breath.

Dean came in with a plastic Target bag in hand.

“My beautiful sister,” he stepped inside. “Goldfish were your favorite when you were little, remember?” He handed me the bag. I took it carefully, standing up by the bed.

“Well go ahead and eat,” he encouraged. He walked over and sat down on the bed, pushing on my shoulder so that I was seated next to him.

“I’m not hungry,” I handed the bag back and scooting over a bit. It was a total lie, of course. I was hungry, but something didn’t feel right about taking food from him.

It was funny, in a sense. When we were kids, I would have jumped off a bridge if he would have told me to. I trusted him with all my heart, and I was sure he would never hurt me. Oh, how the tides have changed.

“Yes you are. Eat,” he commanded, pushing the bag back into my hands.

“No,” I said simply. After his last visit, I’d figured out that being gentle and asking for things would get you nowhere but pain. This time, I’d had hope that maybe if I held my ground, things would go better.

I was wrong.

He smacked me. “You’re not beautiful when you’re disobedient!”

I jumped up and held my cheek. “I don’t care about being beautiful! I want to go home.”

He stood up to match me. “You’re not going home. You have to stay beautiful because if you’re not beautiful I won’t love you anymore!”

It was like dealing with a child. You couldn’t reach them anymore or twist their logic. His mind was set and he wasn’t changing it. It was such a simple minded concept, too, that it was unnatural.

“You loved me when I was a little girl. I wasn’t beautiful back then,” I tried to challenge him.

“You were always beautiful!” he shouted, “Stop it, Chrissy, stop it!” he bent over and covered his ears. “Beautiful girls don’t argue. Beautiful girls don’t argue.” He closed his eyes and crouched down to the ground, shaking his head.

I took advantage of this and sprinted off towards the door. I tried the door knob, but of course, it was locked. I pulled, I pushed, I kicked it, I screamed.

Dean pulled me backwards and held me into him.

“Let go of me!” my arms were thrashing about, hitting his arms, his back, and I think I even hit him in the jaw.

He responded by loosening his grip, only to pull my arms down and pin them to my sides. He then had total control of my movements, but I didn’t give up.

“Dean, let me alone!” I squirmed and thrashed my shoulders from side to side, thanking the Lord for giving me bony shoulders, sharp as slated stones.

“Chrissy,” his voice was strained as he managed to keep his hold on me. He gave up and threw me forward. I stumbled a bit, but was able to turn back to face him without falling. “What happened you to?” His eyes were round and curious as moons. “I loved you and you tried to run away. I loved you and you cried. I loved you and you hit me.”

“I loved you and you left me.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” he screamed like a toddler having a tantrum. “It wasn’t an option. I love you Chrissy! I didn’t want to leave!”

He stormed toward the wall and punched it. I heard the cracking of his bones as his hand met the concrete. He pulled back and the blood streamed down his fingers like tears.

“I didn’t want to go, Chrissy. I love you, and now we’re together forever and we don’t have to ever be separated again! Why won’t you say you love me?” He was crying now, leaning his forehead against the wall. I could hardly understand him as he sobbed, but I could make out words like mother, home, gone, missing, and love.

In a flash, the crying was done, and he pushed himself off the wall and moved over to the door.

“You’re not beautiful anymore. I loved you, but you’re not beautiful anymore.” And he was gone.

**

After Dean had left, I had had time to cool down, and it hit me how stupid I had acted. From my outbreaks, I had accomplished nothing other than pissing him off, which mostly likely wouldn’t turn out well for me.

I had broken down and opened the box of Goldfish he had gotten me, but it didn’t fill my stomach for very long. I need water, I had realized, after I had swallowed half the box of the salty, mouth-drying crackers. Due to lack of time keeping, I wasn’t sure how long it had been since I’d had any water, but I desperately needed some, I had learned, after I noticed the lack of saliva in my mouth.

The cot was doing nothing but hurting my back anymore because of the crude metal springs and very thin mattress, so I was braving it out on the floor. The ground was cold, and made of a concrete-like stone that was covered in dirt and dust. In any other situation, I would have wrinkled my nose and laughed if anyone would have asked me to lay down on it, but after the last what I’d imagined to be days, I was tired and beyond caring. Besides, the firm, flat surface felt nice on my back and shoulders.

I focused on my breathing, trying to clear my mind of all the recent action. It was too much to think about, and I was too tired.

Breathe in one, two, three, four, five, six, hold seven. Exhale, six, five, four, three, two, one.

It was nice and relaxing, considering the circumstances, and I had stayed like that for a long while, which I had guessed to be a couple of hours. I noticed the lack of light under the door, and figured I should try and go to sleep. I took in one last deep breath, and gave in to my exhaustion.

**

I had slept deeply that night, so deep to where I didn’t realize when Dean came in the next morning. It wasn’t until he was kicking me in the side, nearly screaming my name that I woke up.

I was still on the floor, and as a result, I was pretty stiff, but that was soon forgotten.

Dean stood before me with his feet spread shoulder-width apart. His shoulders seemed even more broad and commanding than the day before. His green eyes had lost their old feel of curiosity and obsessive puppy love and were replaced by a colder look of intensity. As if all of this weren’t intimidating enough, a silver handgun was dangling from his fingers in his right hand.

“Dean, what are you doing?” I picked myself off the floor.

“You’re not beautiful anymore, Chrissy. You used to be beautiful, and I came back because I loved you. You don’t love me, and I can’t deal with that anymore.”

I heard the signature click of the gun’s barrel being loaded and before I could say anything, it was pointed in my face.

“Whoa,” I said stupidly, stumbling backwards. “Dean, you don’t want to do that. You love me. People in love don’t shoot each other.”

“I can’t love a girl who isn’t beautiful. You’re not my baby sister anymore.” He took another step towards me.

It was at this point that I stopped thinking, and started acting.

With my one hand, I grabbed underneath the barrel and ducked down as I jerked the gun so that it pointed up to the roof. The gun went off, leaving a single hole in the metal roof, allowing a single ray of sunlight to stream in—the first beams of sunlight I had seen in days. Dean tried to twist the gun to make me let go, but I resisted, causing another shot to go, landing merely feet away from the first round. He tried to pull the gun back, but I positioned my palms so that it could not be brought down. Instead, I wrapped my hands around the sides, and pulled it to my left. This little slip in balance of forces was enough to make me lose my grip on the weapon, allowing Dean to pull it back into his hands and resume his position of pointing it at me. I was defenseless again, but I wasn’t going to give up.

“Why do you keep fighting with me, Chrissy? Beautiful girls don’t fight with men, and beautiful girls don’t get shot. So just let me do this!” he started to shout, aiming the barrel at my clavicle.

Instead of standing still and taking what I had coming, I darted off to the side, and began running around the room, trying to position myself behind him. If he couldn’t see me, he couldn’t shoot me, right? It probably wouldn’t last long, but it would buy me some time to think about how I was going to handle this.

What I needed was the gun. I knew I probably could have fended for myself had it just been Dean’s two bare hands, but no one but maybe Voldemort and Superman could survive a gunshot.

My plan began to work as Dean tried and tried to be able to face me, but I shadowed his back.

“Stand still, Chrissy!” he shouted, beginning to become frustrated.

Dean stopped for a moment to think, and I took advantage of this. I ran up and reached around him for the gun. I could get within two inches of its silver hold, but it was out of reach. Dean shook me off and flung me away, but I refused to let up. As soon as I backed down, he would shoot me. I had to keep fighting.

I moved back forward, and I heard a shot go off. As I ducked, I heard the crack in the concrete. By some sweet, merciful lick of fate, the round had missed me and hit the wall. Dean became preoccupied by trying to place his target that for a split second, he let his focus slip from me, allowing me time to come at him again.

The first time I had attacked him from the front, I made the mistake of letting physics rule who had the most control over the weapon, and this time, I made sure it was me.

Like I had the first time, I pushed the butt of the gun upwards, allowing another round to be shot off. Instead of just standing like that as I had before, I turned my back to Dean and stepped into him. He didn’t realize what I was doing, which caused him to slack while the gears in his mind tried to make sense of what was happening. I used this weakness of his slow thought to pull the gun in his hands down so it was in front of me, barrel pointing out. I wrapped my fingers around the grip, and kicked up my right leg to push him backwards.

I moved forwards as he fell away, then quickly flipped back around so the gun and I were facing him. He started to run towards me, charging like a bull, and without thinking, my finger clicked. The trigger was set and before I could even take in a full breath of air, Dean was falling back, holding his chest. Nothing going through my mind, I let the gun go once more, twice more, three times more before everything went totally still.

In front of me on the floor not three feet from my cot, Dean lay, a red-black pool devouring him as the seconds passed.

I had just shot my brother. He was my brother and he was dead. My brother. And it was my fault.

It began to set in what had just happened, and my head started to spin. I started walking myself into a corner and vomited the little bits of goldfish and bile I had in me.

I took a life. But he tried to take mine.

My life. I was alive. I wasn’t dead. I could go. It was safe now. I could go home.

The door was still locked, so I fished through my brother’s now drenched jean pockets and dug out a thin silver key that gleamed up at me, congratulating me on surviving, to say the least.

As I scurried over to the door, I thought again of Dean and Chernobyl. Everyone had thought they were safe until something oh so simple set them off, and they exploded, causing miles and miles of destruction and damage in ways so horrific, some people can’t believe it’s true. It was an accident, but in a way, it wasn’t. It was caused by humans—it was our, my, fault—and if we had taken simple safety measures and not been so naive, there was a chance we might have avoided the disaster. However, just like with Chernobyl, there was always a chance for recovery, and lessons were learned about taking precaution and quick thinking that I would use until the day I died.

I sighed, exhausted, and fumbled with the key, trying to get it to fit into the lock. Soon enough, it slid into place, clicked as I turned it, and I stepped outside.

The air kissed my cheeks hello and the sunshine waved at me. For the first time in days, I saw the blue sky.