wrong. That maybe it wasn't as bad as it looked.
He began packing it with his things. He decided to only bring the essentials. He didn't want to be dragged down by too much. Plus, he figured that he'd be able to find a lot of things along the way. There would be stores that he could go into. Houses. Even things on the street.
For now, he just needed a few things to change into, to keep clean, to keep warm at night when the temperatures dropped. He threw them into the pack. He put the flashlight and knife in also.
When he got to his desk he saw the notebook filled with the story he had been writing. He picked up the pages in his hand and leafed through them. He thought about his characters, the plot. It had all come out of him so easily. It was something that he loved.
But should he take it with him?
In the end, he decided not to. There was no point. He wasn't going to finish it. No one was going to read it.
He put it down and walked over to get his backpack.
Time to leave.
He made his way to the front door. His heart had started to pick up its pace. He couldn't believe that he was actually about to do this.
He grabbed hold of the door knob and squeezed it tightly. Images of the bodies outside his window flashed through his head. He thought about the man who had tried to get into his apartment yesterday. There'd be a bunch of people lying in the hallway too.
He squeezed the door knob once more.
Then he let go of it.
He wasn't ready. Not yet.
Help still might come , he thought.
He walked back into the living room and went over to the window. He placed his backpack onto the floor as he looked outside once more. There was no one out there, nothing moving.
But help might com e .
Chapter 4
Jane walked back into the house. Her daughter had been buried underneath the maple tree.
And she had killed her neighbour's son.
That wasn't really Harold , she thought. She didn't know who it was - wha t is wa s- but it wasn't Harold. She thought of his face, smashed. She pushed the image out of her mind.
It wasn't Harold. It wasn't.
She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She reached in and grabbed the juice container.
Before she took a sip, she stopped and looked at her hand. It was covered in blood. She looked at her other hand. It, too, was soaked. She looked down at her body and couldn't believe how much blood there was.
This can't be real!
She reached down and touched her shirt. It felt wet and sticky. She pulled at it with her fingers. She could feel the moist material against her skin.
She looked back at her hands and, immediately, felt the need to wash them.
Jane put down the juice container and made her way over to the sink. She turned on the faucet. The water started to flow, though lightly. She ran her hands underneath it. Some of the blood washed into the sink. It swirled around before going into the drain. She took some soap and washed away the rest.
It wasn't an easy job. The blood was reluctant to let go. But she was able to get her hands clean. She wiped them on a towel.
Then she thought once more about her clothes. She didn't want all of this blood on her body. Covering her. She should have taken them off first. Now, her hands would just get bloody again. She couldn't believe that she hadn't thought of that first.
She rushed out of the kitchen and ran up to the bathroom. Her feet stumbled a few times on the stairs, but she caught herself from falling and managed to make it.
She entered the bathroom and stripped off all of her clothes. She pulled at her shirt, her pants. They stuck to her, making them hard to take off.
Eventually, she got out of them. She let them sit in a bloody pile in the corner of her room.
Once naked, Jane stood there and didn't move. She felt powerless. Overcome with emotion. So much had happened in the past little while. Now, here she stood, naked. Alone.
She looked down at her body. She ran her fingers down the middle of her breasts and then over her
He began packing it with his things. He decided to only bring the essentials. He didn't want to be dragged down by too much. Plus, he figured that he'd be able to find a lot of things along the way. There would be stores that he could go into. Houses. Even things on the street.
For now, he just needed a few things to change into, to keep clean, to keep warm at night when the temperatures dropped. He threw them into the pack. He put the flashlight and knife in also.
When he got to his desk he saw the notebook filled with the story he had been writing. He picked up the pages in his hand and leafed through them. He thought about his characters, the plot. It had all come out of him so easily. It was something that he loved.
But should he take it with him?
In the end, he decided not to. There was no point. He wasn't going to finish it. No one was going to read it.
He put it down and walked over to get his backpack.
Time to leave.
He made his way to the front door. His heart had started to pick up its pace. He couldn't believe that he was actually about to do this.
He grabbed hold of the door knob and squeezed it tightly. Images of the bodies outside his window flashed through his head. He thought about the man who had tried to get into his apartment yesterday. There'd be a bunch of people lying in the hallway too.
He squeezed the door knob once more.
Then he let go of it.
He wasn't ready. Not yet.
Help still might come , he thought.
He walked back into the living room and went over to the window. He placed his backpack onto the floor as he looked outside once more. There was no one out there, nothing moving.
But help might com e .
Chapter 4
Jane walked back into the house. Her daughter had been buried underneath the maple tree.
And she had killed her neighbour's son.
That wasn't really Harold , she thought. She didn't know who it was - wha t is wa s- but it wasn't Harold. She thought of his face, smashed. She pushed the image out of her mind.
It wasn't Harold. It wasn't.
She walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She reached in and grabbed the juice container.
Before she took a sip, she stopped and looked at her hand. It was covered in blood. She looked at her other hand. It, too, was soaked. She looked down at her body and couldn't believe how much blood there was.
This can't be real!
She reached down and touched her shirt. It felt wet and sticky. She pulled at it with her fingers. She could feel the moist material against her skin.
She looked back at her hands and, immediately, felt the need to wash them.
Jane put down the juice container and made her way over to the sink. She turned on the faucet. The water started to flow, though lightly. She ran her hands underneath it. Some of the blood washed into the sink. It swirled around before going into the drain. She took some soap and washed away the rest.
It wasn't an easy job. The blood was reluctant to let go. But she was able to get her hands clean. She wiped them on a towel.
Then she thought once more about her clothes. She didn't want all of this blood on her body. Covering her. She should have taken them off first. Now, her hands would just get bloody again. She couldn't believe that she hadn't thought of that first.
She rushed out of the kitchen and ran up to the bathroom. Her feet stumbled a few times on the stairs, but she caught herself from falling and managed to make it.
She entered the bathroom and stripped off all of her clothes. She pulled at her shirt, her pants. They stuck to her, making them hard to take off.
Eventually, she got out of them. She let them sit in a bloody pile in the corner of her room.
Once naked, Jane stood there and didn't move. She felt powerless. Overcome with emotion. So much had happened in the past little while. Now, here she stood, naked. Alone.
She looked down at her body. She ran her fingers down the middle of her breasts and then over her
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