It may seem bizarre to you, when I say that I haven’t ventured beyond my own threshold in many years. Long before the likes of Covid 19, I was convinced (still am) that some kind of pandemic would happen and the only way I would be safe was if I stayed in an environment alone. It no longer worries me, this obsession of mine. I don’t much care for people or what they think of me. This age is about survival, not socializing.

How can a person in this day and age stay in one location for years on end? It is unbelievably simple. I get everything I need delivered, prepaid, and left outside my apartment door. I use computer banking, eTransfer or PayPal. I see my doctor, mostly for minor ailments (I never get blood work done) with Skype.

When SARS hit Toronto years ago, I knew that the only way to survive the coming slew of new and worse viruses was to self isolate. For good. You see, I was a medic in the military, and I had realized during my service that the world would soon face warfare that was designed to appear randomly but which was all too calculated. It was a plan to reduce the world’s population, hatched by those who saw dollar signs when they thought of population decreases. We in the military were vaccinated almost weekly for things we had never heard of. I knew that this was a sign of things to come. SARS was just the beginning of it all.

I could have shared my knowledge with others but chose not to. They would just think me mad, another ‘conspiracy theorist’ to target in the media. No one would listen, I knew. But I think more would listen now, which is why I am writing this journal. At the first sign of getting ill, I will send it to those in the independent media. Perhaps it will help them make sense of what will, in time, become the reason for the extermination of more than half the world’s occupants.

This may happen sooner than I had imagined. Today I was forced to go outside and it was terrifying. But I had no choice. My best friend Louise, my companion of 20 years, had passed away in the night. I could not keep the body with me in such a small place as the bacteria that would work to decompose my friend could become lethal for me, as well. Neither could I incinerate the body myself, because I had only an electric stove.

First, there was the shock of realizing my cat wasn’t moving this morning, not up like usual, batting at my nose in her darling attempt to wake me. Instead, she lay cold and freakishly rigid in her wicker basket. I have seen many corpses in my duty as a medic, but none disturbed me more than seeing my dear friend dead. Poor Louise. At least she died peacefully from what I gathered. Just fell asleep and didn’t wake up. I hope that is exactly how I myself go, someday.

So, through my tears I decided that I had to venture outside, as far as the building’s dumpster. First, I removed her little plaid collar, worn with age and her claw marks from previous attempts to remove it herself. I placed it in my jewelry box, where I also kept my dog tags and an old photo of my parents, long since dead of Covid-19. At least they died together, hand in hand, after their ventilators were finally removed.

After the collar was gone, I brushed Louise’s lovely long fur one last time. The gorgeous tortoise colours still dazzled in the sunshine, just as beautiful as they had been the day I adopted her as a stray kitten. Her piercing green eyes closed forever, I wished I could see them open and looking at me with love, like they had been during all the days of my confinement. I longed to see her chirping at the little visiting birds that would rest upon the balcony railing and taunt her. She was allowed only that single freedom, to breathe the outside air and imagine she could one day catch a bird. On the fifth floor, that was all the freedom I could offer.

I wrapped her in a soft fleece blanket, one that had often lined her basket. Then I suited up, with my mask, plastic gloves and coveralls. I was willing to take this risk with my life, going outside. She was my only living relative and deserved to be put to rest properly. And I could not bear to keep her with me—the pain of the loss was too great, even for a seasoned veteran of war, like myself.

After carefully depositing her tiny body into the giant dumpster, I quickly scrambled back upstairs to my safe place, took a very hot shower and sanitized myself fully. I am trying not to let my thoughts run rampant, imagining the microbes from outdoors burrowing into me, the deadly contagions I may have inadvertently caught.

A sad day, I must say. I have retrieved her collar and am holding it, fingering its bumps and ridges, jingling the tags aimlessly. I down a scotch before bed, because for once it is truly required.

***

It has been a week since Loise left me. Compounding her loss is my own illness, which started yesterday—the first time I have been sick since I self-isolated. Chills, headache, body aches. I soon realized the situation was worse than I thought. I had not been on the balcony since the day before Louse passed, so it was horrifying to go out, expecting fresh air to revive my spirit but instead finding the mutilated remains of a dead sparrow. Disgusted by yet another deathly image, I kicked that retched thing off the balcony, watching in plummet to the distant ground.

I contacted my on-line physician, explaining my symptoms in detail. I told him that I had been outside just to dispose of my cat’s corpse—that other than that I had not been out in contact with others for many years. His eyes showed sympathy, which touched me. I thought perhaps he knew what it meant to lose such a dear pet. But that was not the reason for his empathy.

He asked whether the cat was allowed outdoors and I reassured him that the balcony was as far as she was ever allowed. Did she ever come into contact with birds, he asked. I remembered the ripped apart remains of the sparrow, and of course she had been the little victor, finally catching one on her last day. I told him about it. He asked if I had been watching the news and I of course said no, since the news is all full of misinformation, half-truths or complete lies. Few people even bothered anymore.

He explained that despite my efforts to stay safe, that a new, fast-progressing virus had been active in the city in the past week. It seemed to travel from birds to animals that prey on them, then, oddly, to humans through mere contact with infected animals. It was called BARS. My symptoms matched those reported in the humans who had already caught it and died within a few days. Its death rate was 75%, for those who had it. Given my extended exposure, age and current symptoms, he felt I should remain isolated and hope for the best.

I am waiting for the outcome of my current situation. The saddest realization I face is that my infected cat has now moved on and potentially been touched and could contribute to the coming annihilation of our city’s humans.

Please, those who read this, know that my intention was never to harm anyone, least of all myself. My fever is still high and I find it increasingly difficult to breathe. Yet, I cannot go to hospital because I have been told to stay home. The chance of my spreading the awful thing is too high to risk exposing the workers or patients to it by going for help. Now I am here, and for the first time, I wish I could be in a medical centre. Anywhere but here.

As I hold Louise’s collar in my shaking hand, I realize that it may not be long before we are together again.