It was one of many “activities” of late that felt tantamount to still trying to go through the motions in an apocalypse. Because, honestly, Rory thought, what was the point of working so hard to take care of one’s body when, clearly, life on this planet wasn’t going to be sustainable for much longer?

Still, Rory couldn’t stop herself from being on autopilot when it came to “self-care.” In this case, tending to her “every six months” dermatology appointment. Though most people were only required to do such a thing once a year (but, of course, like the expectation of going to the dentist for a yearly cleaning, few people ever actually adhered to the unspoken—and often spoken—rule). Alas, Rory had been born with the curse of fair skin, taking all of her traits from her mother’s pale-skinned Welsh side. And none of the “melanin superpowers” that might have come from her father’s Greek side.

Just another way, Rory supposed, that her father, Julius, had chosen to distance himself from her even before she was born. For it was only two years later that he up and abandoned her and her mother, Edris, leaving the latter to “figure it out” for herself. That is, how to take care of a child emotionally and financially, with no reprieve from one category or the other thanks to the benefit of a “partner” to shoulder some of the burden. And, as most people know, managing to do just one of those two rarely leaves time for the other. But since everyone nowadays figures that financial support means more to children than emotional, it’s no wonder Edris threw herself into working. Not just one job, but two: a day shift as a receptionist at, of all places, a dermatologist’s office and a night shift at the local diner. Because, not so surprisingly, the dermatologist she worked for seemed to want to keep all the monetary bounty for himself rather than spreading it in a way that would allow her to make more than minimum wage.

As such, Edris rarely had time to take care of herself, let alone Rory. “Self-care,” in other words, was not a term that existed in her lexicon. And that’s how, Rory was certain, Edris ended up in an early grave. By having never “tended to herself,” as Rory was always certain to now. Even during what had become a perennial heatwave. Though they kept saying it was “going to pass” “soon.” At one point, they had even offered “any day now” as a consolation, but that was years ago. However, the heatwave, like everything terrible, just seemed “fixed” at present. Something that the public at large (particularly the broke-ass public at large) would simply need to “live with.” After all, it’s not as if anyone was going to start rioting in the streets against the governments and corporations that had caused this perennial heatwave to begin with. It was too sweltering/life-threatening to bother.

Indeed, as Rory made her way toward what was left of public transportation (now operating three times a day: morning [eight a.m.], afternoon [two p.m.] and night [nine p.m.]) to get to the medical appointment in question, the streets were like a wasteland. Not a soul to be seen. Evidently, the temperature had finally reached a point where it had managed to stave off even the “bravest” (a.k.a. most socially desperate) of people from peppering the pavement. The masses had at last gotten the message: “Everyone is in danger, even those in good health.”

But not Rory, who counted herself in the latter category precisely because she kept up these medical appointments regularly, in any weather condition. And hey, as long as these medical professionals were still willing to show up to take her money, why shouldn’t she, too, keep showing up to give it? Going through the “necessary” processes of what it meant to be a “self-caring” human being. Maybe it would pay off when the apocalypse finally did “appear” in a more permanent kind of way. As in, when governments and corporations couldn’t even pretend to function anymore in a manner that allowed them to sell things, whether politicians or products.

And that’s when Rory would be a highly sought-after human being. You know, for reproductive purposes. Not that she really even wanted to be used for such purposes. In which case, she should really just stop caring so much about the health and well-being of her body. Let it go to shit like her mother did. Along with pretty much everyone else on the planet doing all manner of things to riddle themselves with “bad genes.” They smoked, they drank, they tanned, they fucked indiscriminately.

In short, they were all dooming themselves because they knew they were doomed regardless. What point was there in “bothering” with the upkeep of one’s body if it wasn’t going to endure for a full lifetime? If anything, Rory was the fool, the chump, the simp for continuing to so diligently pay attention to her health. In a searing, unending heatwave no less! If she had half a mind (which maybe she didn’t—maybe the sun had melted more than half away), she would turn on her heel right now and head for the nearest beach so she could lay out, get lobster red and then turn it into a tan. What did skin cancer matter? Her body (de facto, her skin) would be “gone” in another decade, tops, at the rate things were deteriorating.

But Rory couldn’t stop herself from going through with it. Getting her regular “checks” as she always did. To do otherwise would be to give up hope entirely. She didn’t want to. Even though all of the facts, combined with all of her best instincts and intuition, told her that the end was nigh. The proof was in the weather. The unending inferno. No matter what the supposed season. Ha! Season? What a quaint word at this juncture. It was currently what people once called fall and the temperature showed no signs of lowering.

In the face of it all, she swung open the door to the dermatology office, checked in and waited. When she was summoned by the doctor into the examining room, it only took about three movements of the dermatoscope across her skin for the doctor to tell her she had a mole that had developed into a melanoma and that she would need surgery to remove it. Well, isn’t that just lovely? Rory mused to herself. She wished she could be like the rest of them. That she could have not cared enough to have skipped coming here. Then she wouldn’t know about having a melanoma, therefore wouldn’t then also care about having it removed. Adding to the list of the many costs that kept stacking up every day.

She paid anyway. To have it removed as soon as possible, that is. And wouldn’t you know it, right in the middle of the surgery, the entire building started to melt, caving in on itself as chunks of rebar came crashing down all around them, at one point landing right on the top of Rory’s head. Her final vision being the sight of the scalpel jabbed into the bloodied skin of her arm after the doctor had been jarred by the sound of the building’s strange moanings and groanings right before it came down. So that, it would seem, is what one got in exchange for “self-care” in eschatological times.