Tom Bunker – Part Two

I know I never finished introducing myself. In some way I apologise for that, but not all. First off let me state that this thing I am writing is not meant to be a concise history of the world that was, or even a thorough accounting of my life. These words are purely written to keep me sane and keep hope alive in my chest. Yes I want to put a picture of who I am on these pages so that someone may know me at some point in the future. I’m not sure concentrating on the past is the best way to do that.

Secondly I retreat from the past due to my reaction to it. Thinking of my mother and father left me feeling sad. I realised that I miss my mother greatly, and that my feelings towards my father are horribly confused. I worry I made him sound the villain in my first go. It is true some came to see him as such, myself included for a little while, but as I think on what he did I wonder how true this is. My present is enough to depress me and I feel I need to be in a stronger position to explore my past.

Let me instead tell you of my bunker. It is small, barely large enough to house and feed me. For a short time I shared this space with my parents, but that was long ago now. We ran here after the invasion of the Scrappers, and eventually this bunker was separated from the tunnels some time after that. The three floors that make this bunker are my entire world. I remember pining for the outside when stuck in the tunnel, now I pine for the tunnel.

I have come to see the bunker as both prison and haven. It is my continuing belief that humans do not like to be penned in, at least not in a space so small. In my youth I heard many tales of tunnel dwellers losing their mind over the space in some of the grand connection halls, so I guess we humans do have a size of space we prefer. I also am under no illusion that me being caged in this bunker is the only reason I am still alive.

The top floor is my bedroom. It still contains three rust riddled bed frames; two pushed together to make a larger bed and the other off to the side. Even after all these years I sleep in the single bed nestled against the wall. I really should move the two pushed together, but even after all these years I still can’t find the heart to do it. It also contains a sink, though the water to it has long since run dry.

The middle floor is my living area, and is where I am sat writing this. I am sat on an old chair with wheels, something my mother referred to as an office chair. For years I remember sitting on this thing and making it go up and down by pulling the lever; sadly that functionality is no more. The desk is little more than two piles of four high blocks with a stretch of rough metal resting atop them. My wrists still bear the scars of the rough edges of the desk cutting into my bare flesh.

I should note here that the desk was the first thing I made after being left on my own. My father had a desk, but that sits down below. I’m not sure why I won’t use it, I only know that I can’t bring myself to do it. Using only the materials you can find in a small bunker it is hard to make something nice and safe. Still, a bundle of old cloth stuck around the edge of the desk stopped the wrist slicing.

Also on this floor sits an old computer that I can’t get running, a portal hole that contains plugs to access both the electric grid and the old communications array, and a tatty old sofa that one would be a fool to sit on.

The bottom floor is where the machines sit. Cramped into this small area is the large machine that produces my food, a small machine that produces water, a bucket for eliminating basic human waster, a medium machine with a spinning thing on it that I have no idea what it is or does, and of course the aforementioned paternal desk. I only ever go down there when I need to eat, drink, or poop. I don’t like it down there.

The computer has become my first obsession. I know it worked before I was on my own, so I am hopeful it may live again. I am also aware that the computer was the way my father used to communicate with the outside world when we lived here also. I find my need to talk anyone growing at an unreasonable rate. Writing this is just me talking to myself, but in the stupid hope that one day someone may read my words. It may not be the most instantly gratifying way of communication, but for me that one fire of hope is enough to keep me going.

The computer however might give me near instant access to other people. In my darker days I wonder if anyone else is still alive. I know these kind of thoughts are unhelpful so I try my best to brush them to one side. But not only do I need to try and fix the computer, something I remember being good at, I also need to fix the portal on this floor. Only the bottom floor has power, and I fear to use that in case it destroys the machines that are keeping me alive. Besides, only this floor has the plug that connects the computer to the communications system, and that is powered by the electric feed into the portal anyway.

I still don’t know if I should fix the portal or the computer first. I cannot know for sure if the computer is fixed if I can’t give it power or connect it to the communication plug, but I have no need for either of those without the computer. I find my mind is too muddled to work that out today. Besides it is getting late and I really should sleep.


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