Ground Zero: Writer’s Digest 5th Annual Personal Essay Awards Winner

Ground Zero

by F.A. Battle

I had an uncle who used to say that if the world ended while he was alive, he wanted to be at the heart of the destruction. When the asteroid slammed into the ocean or the nuclear bomb blew off half the continent, Uncle Esau wanted to be right at ground zero.

It wasn’t that my uncle had a death wish. It was more a desire to avoid the despair that comes after such a horrific event. Broken bodies and bloody aftermath. Naked orphans roaming the streets. Desperate, starving survivors, stabbing each other over the last honey bun in the bodega. “Who wants to deal with all that mess?” my uncle would say between bites of stew beef, rice, and collards. “Just take me out with the first wave.”

My mother always cooked for an army because, on top of feeding her own family, her older brother had a knack for showing up just as the food was ready. “What you got cooking up in these pots, girl?” Uncle Esau would ask, as he ambled toward the stove, plate and fork already in hand. She would yell at him for digging in her pots without washing up first. He would huff about it but always went to wash his hands. Then he’d fix his plate and the two of them would bicker, laugh, and gossip about their other siblings while he ate.

When the conversation turned to Armageddon, as it always did for some reason with Uncle Esau, my mother would mumble, “Here we go with this shit again.” Then, she would find something to do in another part of the house. But I loved it. I would sit at the kitchen table and drink in every bit of his dark wisdom about the world's end.

Because he was my uncle, and I was a child, I was prone to agree with him on the whole post-apocalypse thing. There would be no military rule or refugee camps for me. I would be proud to get taken out on the front line, screaming like a bitch along with the rest of the moron army standing in the street, gaping up at the million-ton space rock careening toward our faces. Hypnotized by the scarlet hell boiling down on us instead of running our asses for cover. The few! The proud! The instantly fried! Sign me up, dammit! I’ll be the one melted right into my shoes.

Over the years, I’ve gleaned a great deal of strength from Uncle E's philosophy and those endearing childhood chats about death and cataclysm. I’ve faced many trials with his voice echoing in my mind — Stand tall and take it head-on, girl! or If it don’t kill ya, it’ll make ya stronger, and who can forget the classic, If it kills ya … ah well.

But today, I am alone in this theater lobby, and all that big stand-strong-and-take-it-like-a-woman talk is barely a whisper in the distance. I’m locked on the pair of eyes just beyond the concession stand. They’re burning a hole through me. These mahogany pools, set ablaze with flecks of gold and emerald — are far more dangerous than any space rock. More deadly than any bomb or weapon of mass destruction. I’m hypnotized into paralysis. I’m a pathetic twitching mass with no will of my own. And contrary to my uncle’s wise teachings, every part of me wants nothing more than to run for cover.

If I could muster the will to move my legs that’s exactly what I would do. If I could suck enough air into my lungs to run out of this lobby and back into the street, then I would be so gone. But my legs are numb. My breath has rattled to a stop. And my heart is slamming against my chest, telling me to move forward or die right in this spot.

Twenty years. That’s how long I’ve known my husband. Married for 10 years. We have two beautiful children, a boy and a girl.

Am I happy?

Knowing that my kids are cherished and cared for by two loving parents makes me happy.

But am I happy?

I like my job. I make a decent living. We live a good life.

Girl! Are you happy?!

No. I am not happy. I want to be. I should be. I have tried to be for a very long time. I slip on the happy-wife mask and wear it for as long as I can tolerate. But then, my skin starts to itch, my head spins, and the mask slips away. Beneath, is a face I don’t fully recognize.

And now, here I stand at ground zero about to get pulverized by those eyes. Because I should not be here. But there’s no other place in the world I want to be. I am what? Gay? Bisexual? Lesbian? Queer? None of them feel right to my ears, so I use them all interchangeably, but only with myself. To everyone else, I am Mommy, Wife, Sister, Friend, Co-worker.

To everyone except her.

To her, I am simply Felicia. And this Felicia…this unmasked, wide-open Felicia is Beautiful. Passionate. Intense. Sexy … So deliciously different that I am unlike any other woman on the face of the planet. She tells me that in words, but she doesn’t have to. I can feel it in the caress that sends currents of electricity through my entire body before her fingertips even land on my skin. And in the way her lips claim my own for themselves. Both soft and delicate then deep and passionate, locked in kisses so sweet I can taste her for days after. The same lips that now smile at my approach, brush my cheek, and whisper my name, as I melt right into my shoes.

Let the bloody aftermath begin.

See the full list of winners here!