Runner up - Senior section

St Mary’s College

I had never been to a funeral before Annie.

Well, I still haven’t I suppose. Unless you count staring at a coffin on Zoom as going to a funeral. It’s weird; everyone knew the virus was happening but no one thought their lives would actually be affected by it. And then Annie was dead and nobody quite knew what to think.

Some people made an effort to dress up, at least on their top halves. Others were clearly in bed; not trying to hide it at all. Peter had a sunny beach as his virtual background, crowded with sunbathing women and screaming children. It was vile; looking at all those people so close together. It made me anxious.

I don’t think he realised. Or maybe he just didn’t know how to get rid of it.

The only people actually there with Annie were the undertakers, in full PPE gear of course. They must have gotten them custom made in black. I couldn’t stop watching their little box of livestream; they performed all their tasks in eerie, muted silence and reflective visors. I felt as if I was watching an alien ritual.

But the whole thing was a complete disaster.

People kept freezing in the middle of their speeches or were interrupted by someone forgetting to mute themselves. The actual coffin-lowering ceremony dropped out and they had to hoist her up again and redo it. When the little timer popped up saying we had ten minutes left in the session we decided to call it quits early and let everyone grieve in peace.

I grieve in pieces.

Usually I would take myself off to a bar and get as drunk as possible, but that isn’t an option and I finished the last bottle of wine three days ago. My order is stuck in transit and I have the little tracking page open on my computer at all hours, refreshing it as often as possible to see if the tiny dot has moved another millimetre while I was away.

It never has.

So now I’m forced to actually think. About Annie, about the virus, about the overwhelmingly uncertain future. I think I was relatively okay with everything that was happening. I was never an incredibly social person and, although I was susceptible to the fear-mongering on the news, as long as I had WiFi and tea everything seemed manageable; I was on jobkeeper, my toxic ex couldn’t stalk me anymore and I finally had time to take up crocheting.

But now that Annie is dead, everything is different. I stop seeing the death toll as a statistic; it becomes a record of all those loved people that have been lost, and for every number I know an immeasurable amount of pain accompanies it. I don’t particularly like my family or wish for their company, but the idea that they could die, alone, hooked to a ventilator in an overcrowded hospital, sends shivers down my spine.

My little bubble of COVID security has started to feel more like a prison. I like being by myself, but knowing that I can’t leave distresses me. I’m used to having total autonomy and now, even though I know it’s for my own good, I hate the government for taking that away.

On a whim I dragged a chair over to the window in my apartment living room and I’ve become obsessed with staring out it. There’s nothing to see really, but I just can’t tear my eyes away from those bleak and empty streets. Occasionally a person or two will wander across, or a car will drive by, and it startles me every time. I’ll watch them as intently as I can, wanting to memorise everything about this apparently lone warrior, braving the pandemic.

So I’ve started to document them.

I write down a basic description, as much as I can see, inventing little details where it seems fit. And then I give them families, pets, hobbies, careers, lives. I invent their innermost secrets; their first kiss, their recurring dreams, their biggest pet peeve. I know everything about them. I can write for hours on just one person; making it as intricate as I can.

I write in a large tear-away notebook and stick the pages up; a wallpaper comprised of imaginary lives. Some eventually come loose but I just stick new ones up in their place and soon sheets of paper are hidden everywhere; lurking behind the toaster or under my bed.

My wine shipment finally arrives and sits, abandoned, on my kitchen counter for over a week before I finally pull myself together and stash it in my office. Everything in my apartment is covered in a thin layer of dust. I barely eat or sleep anymore, but I’ve never had so much energy. I have a purpose now.

I feel like a god. I can create life with a few pencil strokes and erase it just as easily. My people start to inhabit the few dreams I have; playing out scenes that I have written. Soon they slip through the cracks and appear in my life. At first they are shy, peeking around doors and disappearing if I so much as look at them but eventually they grow comfortable with me and we stay up for hours talking.

And amongst the imagined faces a real one starts to emerge. At first I don’t recognise her; she’s often lost in the crowds of people but one morning I wake and she’s sitting at the end of my bed.

Annie.

I nearly burst into tears but I manage to swallow the sadness and instead focus on the joy. I tell her everything I possibly can about myself. Her smile is so familiar right down to the one dimple on her right cheek. I make us peppermint tea like old times and introduce her to all my new friends.

One early morning my mum FaceTimes me to check in. For the first few minutes all I can see is a close-up of her ear, but I explain to her how it works with a calmness I didn’t know I had and then we’re able to have our conversation face to face. Sort of.

We chat about the weather and the latest news. She says that her neighbours have been dropping food round for her since she’s immunocompromised and can’t go to the shops and tells me a long winded story about how dad has attempted to start knitting to terrible results and even worse moods.

I get easily exhausted by these conversations and besides, I have to get back to my people. So I tell her I have to go and she stops.

“I’m sorry love,” she says. “I’ve only talked about myself this whole time. How are you faring over there? It can’t be easy being all by yourself.”