I lay quietly on the mattress, the fabric slightly rough against my skin, a reminder of our rudimentary living conditions here in Clivilius. Jamie's soft snores provided a comforting, if unexpected, backdrop to my swirling thoughts. The closeness was unfamiliar, yet in this unfamiliar environment, even the small warmth from another human was a comfort not to be underestimated. A single pillow lay between us, a meagre barrier that underscored our shared predicament. It was all we could spare, and though it was a small inconvenience, the necessity of sharing a blanket seemed to amplify the situation's intimacy and its discomfort.
The thought crossed my mind, not for the first time, that Luke could have at least provided us with two blankets. The oversight seemed minor in the grand scheme of our survival, but in the quiet of the night, such small comforts took on greater significance. I made a mental note, firm in my resolve, to ensure that Luke brought additional bedding with the new tents tomorrow. The darkness enveloped us so completely that writing down this reminder was impossible, leaving me to rely on a memory that often proved frustratingly unreliable.
But what would never escape my mind were memories of my kids. Vivid images of Mack and Rose played across the canvas of my mind like scenes from a life that felt both achingly close and impossibly distant. I could see them running around the Zinc Lakes, their laughter echoing against the backdrop of the churning mines, a soundtrack of our daily lives in the outback. The vivid green of the grass underfoot and the playful chase of mallard ducks brought a bittersweet pang of longing to my heart. I could almost feel the mist of the water fountain on my face, a fleeting respite from the relentless heat of the midday sun. The ache for my children was a constant, a deep-seated longing that this alien landscape could do nothing to alleviate.
And then there was Claire. My thoughts shifted to her—sporadic, lively, troubled Claire. The memory that surfaced was not a pleasant one, tinged with the sharpness of our last argument. The image of the window, the roses, and the thorns invaded my thoughts, a vivid reminder of the tumultuous state of our relationship. The argument, centred around my habitual prioritisation of work over family, had been abruptly cut short by Luke's call. At the time, it had seemed like a reprieve, an escape from the immediate conflict.
But now, lying here, the question of whether that interruption had been fortunate gnawed at me. That very call was the reason I found myself in this current predicament, far from home, far from the unresolved tensions with Claire, and immeasurably far from my children's laughter. The irony of the situation was not lost on me; in my attempt to escape the difficulties of one aspect of my life, I had been thrust into an entirely new set of challenges, ones that made the previous seem trivial by comparison.
The realisation that these memories, both sweet and painful, would never leave me was both a comfort and a curse. They were a link to a world I had been forcibly ripped from, a constant reminder of what I was fighting to return to. Yet, they also underscored the profound isolation of my current situation, the physical and emotional distance that lay between me and the life I knew.
Despite the deep yearning within me to hold my children again, to feel their warmth and hear their laughter, a part of me was also becoming increasingly resolved to face our current reality head-on. The idea of making this new, alien settlement work began to take root in my mind, an unexpected sprout of determination amid the desolation of Clivilius. Settlement... the word echoed in my thoughts, highlighting its anonymity, its lack of identity. It needs a name, I mused, the realisation bringing a sense of purpose, however small, to our plight.
Letting my thoughts drift off, I allowed the mental exhaustion and the emotional turmoil of the day to wash over me. My eyelids fluttered several times, heavy with fatigue, as they fought for the rest they so dearly sought. The darkness behind my closed eyes became a canvas for my thoughts, a space where the practicalities of survival mingled with the more abstract notions of home and belonging.
"Bixbus!" The name erupted from me, unintentionally aloud, breaking the silence of the night. The sound of it seemed to hang in the air, a tangible manifestation of my subconscious efforts to anchor us to this place. Yes, I thought this time, more deliberately, embracing the name fully. Bixbus. It had a strange ring to it, alien yet oddly fitting for our new home. The act of naming it felt like a small victory, a way of claiming a piece of this world as our own, of imposing order on the chaos that had been thrust upon us.
