Jornada del Muerto: Prisoner Days by Claudia Hall Christian

prisoner, and 10 years fighting the
wasps.
    I have wondered if my
great-great-grandmother sent me here so that I would gain control
over my sexual drive. Certainly control over my sex drive was a
side effect of 25 years in isolation.
    The first year was hard. I missed the touch
of flesh, the gentle caress of a woman’s hand, and that
all-consuming moment when I immerse myself into her. I missed
Laurie’s laugh or sigh. I spent many hours with myself and my
memories.
    Over time, I became less interesting to me.
And, possibly because I am older, my sexual drive diminished. In
the last years, my sex drive has diminished to the point of being
gone. I would say that it was entirely gone, but my interactions
with the human women tell a very different story.
    I don’t think about sex anymore. Thinking
about Laurie is too painful, so I don’t. I also don’t see her. I
could call her from her peaceful rest, but I don’t. I’d rather
think of her at peace than have her see me as I am now.
    I’ve never had sex with a man. I know that
most prison movies show prisons as hotbeds of rape and sex. I’ve
only ever been in solitary confinement. I don’t really know what
about prison life is like, per se. No guards came to my cell for
sex. Nor, as far as I can tell, any other prisoner’s cell.
    George was very sexually
active. He had a bevy of regular lovers and a few less consenting
men. He was such a physical creature that lust became him. His lust
was the stuff of legends. But he had a lust for everything
physical: food, sex, exercise, sleep, showering … If it was physical, George lusted
for it.
    George is a different being after healing
his soul. He’s calmer, more thoughtful. If he has a powerful lust,
I wouldn’t know it. We sleep in the same room, eat together, and
spend most of our time together. He laughs, communicates as he can,
and works.
    He can work. He loves working. The harder he
works, the happier he is.
    The old George would never have left the
human women alone. The old George would have had each of them and
then gone back for seconds and thirds. His lust for sex mingled
with dominance was strong. This George acted like a shy virgin. His
lust for them was as clear as my own. Yet, in place of the
aggression and need was a kind of shy uncomfortability.
    Anyway,
sex … I ’ m talking
about sex because we have only a few more days before we leave the
Pen. I don’t know if I can take this Remington with us. If we creep
through the tunnels, we can’t take anything with us. My
documentation as the last human on the planet will end here at the
Pen. I figured I needed to cover all of the topics that might be
important if anyone comes behind us.
    Maybe when the mammals return, they will be
able to decipher these ramblings. More than likely, they will curse
me for using paper and not stone.
    We forget so much, our species. Our world is
littered with the ruins of cultures that lived only a few hundred
years ago. Yet, we know nothing about the people, the culture, or
the language. Anthropologists and archeologists spent minor
fortunes digging in the dirt for some clue to our human
history.
    That’s what will happen to George and me. We
will blow like dust in the wind. Maybe someone will read what I
wrote here. It’s more likely that these pages will be used for a
wasp’s nest -- destroyed and devoured.
    I have held on so long here with the single
idea that we would escape the Pen for the Pueblo on the 500th day
after seeing the last wasp. I have been fixed on the idea that this
day is the end of November 2046. We were so close, so close.
    Now, we are surrounded by wasps. Do we
leave? Or do we stay and hope to accrue 500 days?
    We cannot continue to
defend the entire Pen compound. If we stay past the
30 th of November, we will have to make some hard choices. We are
fond of our garden, but it’s a lot to defend. We can defend this
building, but we will eventually run out of fuel for the
generators. Once the electric