'What is it?' Pip asks. She's a curious little tyke, as kids of that age are. Bindy lets her touch it, conscious of how many times she shouts no, slapping her hand away from things that are dangerous, or that cause a tantrum when she is not allowed to bring them home. Pip, as young as she is, knows that some things upset her Mum, which has usually to do with a past that Pip is fascinated by.
'It's a television.' Bindy says. She can't help the reverence in her voice. It's been a long time since she's seen one. It's much easier out in the mountains, with no debris from the world that was. They have been able to create their own, however, on the edge of a lake, in a pretty little shack they would never have been able to afford in '23. Now, anyone could set up home wherever they like, and not pay a penny. The joys of the apocalypse.
'But what's it for?' Pip asks, curious. She doesn't look at her mother, but is mesmerised by the black glass and sharp corners. She runs her tiny hand over the screen, leaving smears on the dust. Bindy's instinct is to reprimand her, but since there's no power to turn it on, it doesn't matter much about the fingerprints.
'People would watch it. It'd show pictures. You'd watch people, people you didn't know...' Bindy was out of her depth. How do you explain this to a child? 'And sometimes it'd show people's fake lives, and they'd manipulate the audience into - '
'Babe. you're losing her.' Of course Joe always found the right words, like he did when her dog died in the winter of '24. A lot of things died that winter. It was the year they built a huge pyre and threw all the remnants of the old world upon it. The air filled with the smell of burning plastic. She watched her phone melt and cried. Her mind searched for Tik Tok and Instagram reels that no longer existed. It hurt.
There was only the endless snow.
But bit by bit, the old world fell away. The need to compete. The need to be someone. The feelings of inadequacy. The bank account, always in the red, and the train to work, every day. Now a day was about keeping alive. It took a long time to realise that was better than the kind of surviving they used to do. Eventually, she stopped looking for the screen. Her scrolling thumb became just a phantom, and then disappeared entirely.
Joe took off his backpack and knelt in front of the TV with his daughter. 'Reality TV is like a make-believe game that grown-ups used to play. They lived in a house or go on an adventure, and cameras follow them around all the time to see what they do and say.'
'Cameras, daddy?' Bindy thought it'd be easier if her daughter wasn't so curious. It made everything take longer. She hated going on supply runs as it was. She had to remember the things they threw on the fire. She looked at the door, checked her escape routes. It wasn't good to linger in town. She looked to the television again, and beautiful green velvet sofa. She imagined sinking into the cushions with a red wine and finding the remote. The bliss of nothingness, the appeal of other people's fucked up lives that were somehow worse than your own pitiful existence. The searching for the dresses the prettiest women wore, and ordering them on Amazon, where they would arrive a few days later by a buzzing drone. She would squeeze into the soft fabrics and look critically at herself in the mirror, and reach for the wine. It helped some. Oh, she missed wine.
'They make pictures you can watch again and again. Like drawings of stories, but real. Sometimes they compete with each other to win a prize, or they just try to get along and have fun. It's not our plays, not make believe. It was real life back then, but they would only show certain bits to make it more interesting to watch.' He stood up, wiped the screen free of dust. It reflected the truth of the decaying house - reflections of damp, and lichens clinging to rotting walls. Things green, growing. Before long it would house a forest.
'Like watching a big game of pretend with real people instead of toys?' Pip asks. 'Oh, fishcakes, I'd love to see that!'
'Oh, little Pip.' Bindy says, taking her little one's hand and leading her toward the door, Joe following behind with one of the velvet cushions. It will make a lovely seat by the fire. They had also scored eight tins of baked beans, a half jar of dried porcini, a jar of crystallised honey, and a jaffle iron they found in the garage. It pokes painfully pokes into her back where it has been hastily shoved into her backpack, and she is reassured by the weight of it, it's usefulness. If this were reality TV she would the darling of the show. Resourceful, strong, resilient, capable. Having survived the end of the world, she would be one to watch, to be admired. But that did not matter now. Only Pip and Joe, and the cabin by the lake.
She turns to Pip and ruffles her daughters hair. She affirms it for herself and Joe as much as Pip, the desire to leave all thought of such things behind. This was their reality, here.
'No you wouldn't, honey. No you wouldn't.'
This is written in response to 'The Ink Well' community prompt of the week, Reality TV. The image is co-created by Midjourney at the behest of my prompt manipulation.
With Love,
Are you on HIVE yet? Earn for writing! Referral link for FREE account here