drop of blood on her clothing or her skin; there is no open gash or wound. But her chest does not rise and fall, her eyes do not blink, and she does not move. Were it not for the unnatural way her head is twisted, it would be nearly impossible to tell just from looking at her how she had died. She stares at me with those hollow eyes, and it is as if I am staring into myself, as if I am viewing the scene of my own death. This girl with my face could easily have shared my fate, or I could have shared hers had things been different. She had every mark of a survivor, but she had been denied the basic knowledge and skills that could have saved her from the butchers that did this.
“What a waste.”
For the next hour I scour the house for any supplies I can use, but find nothing worth taking. The butchers cleaned everything out. I decide to stay here for the night because there is no point in going out now to find shelter, and because it is probably the safest place for me to be considering it is unlikely whoever did this will return. I sleep in the girl’s bed, breathing through my mouth so I cannot smell the awful stench of death and blood.
But I can still taste it, and it tastes foul.
Chapter 10
When daybreak arrives, I wake up, grab my things, and abandon the small green cape and the corpses inside of it, which have begun to reek from the heat. It takes me longer than I would like to forget them. I keep thinking about how no one will bury them, how they will rot in their own home, how not a soul will mourn their deaths. But that is not my burden to bear. They were never meant to survive in this world anyway; they didn’t have what it takes—except, maybe, the girl . . .
I manage to push them out of my mind by keeping myself occupied. For nearly three months there is never a moment when I am inactive; every spare second I have is dedicated to hunting and gathering. But despite my efforts, my food supply diminishes more and more as the days pass, forcing me to venture father out into the open in search of fresh supplies—usually without luck. When ransacking abandoned homes proves more trouble than it’s worth, I have no choice but to return to the woods for nourishment. But even there I find myself destitute; more often than not my snares go untouched, only capturing the occasional scrawny squirrel.
For the first time in a while I begin to feel hunger pangs. Nuts and edible plants become my primary source of nutrition, but the emptiness in my stomach never subsides. My hunger even drives me to stupidly pick a few unknown black berries before I notice the bell-shaped purple flowers growing among them. I laugh. How ironic it would be to be killed by my own namesake, the deadly nightshade. Cursing myself for my own carelessness, I drop the poisonous berries on the ground and squash them with my boot.
I was born and raised to be a survivor, but recently I can barely say I’m surviving. Maybe I’ve lost my touch, or maybe I’ve just been lucky these past four years. Sometimes I can’t help but miss my father; if he were here he would make sure I never missed a meal. But then again, if my father were here he would tell me to shut the hell up and stop feeling sorry for myself. Ah, good old dad. He would tell me not to think about what could be, but to focus on what is. The reality is my father isn’t here. He’s dead. I need to remember that, and I need to stop contemplating the “what ifs.” He died so that I could live; I’m not going to die too and have his whole effort be in vain; I can’t disrespect him like that. No, if I am going out, it is not going to be because of starvation. No way in hell will I let that happen.
The way I see it I have two options: travel out of my comfort zone into some of the more distant towns where there are bound to be more food stores to raid or continue scavenging in the forest like a dog. Both have their pros and cons. If I return to civilization, my
“What a waste.”
For the next hour I scour the house for any supplies I can use, but find nothing worth taking. The butchers cleaned everything out. I decide to stay here for the night because there is no point in going out now to find shelter, and because it is probably the safest place for me to be considering it is unlikely whoever did this will return. I sleep in the girl’s bed, breathing through my mouth so I cannot smell the awful stench of death and blood.
But I can still taste it, and it tastes foul.
Chapter 10
When daybreak arrives, I wake up, grab my things, and abandon the small green cape and the corpses inside of it, which have begun to reek from the heat. It takes me longer than I would like to forget them. I keep thinking about how no one will bury them, how they will rot in their own home, how not a soul will mourn their deaths. But that is not my burden to bear. They were never meant to survive in this world anyway; they didn’t have what it takes—except, maybe, the girl . . .
I manage to push them out of my mind by keeping myself occupied. For nearly three months there is never a moment when I am inactive; every spare second I have is dedicated to hunting and gathering. But despite my efforts, my food supply diminishes more and more as the days pass, forcing me to venture father out into the open in search of fresh supplies—usually without luck. When ransacking abandoned homes proves more trouble than it’s worth, I have no choice but to return to the woods for nourishment. But even there I find myself destitute; more often than not my snares go untouched, only capturing the occasional scrawny squirrel.
For the first time in a while I begin to feel hunger pangs. Nuts and edible plants become my primary source of nutrition, but the emptiness in my stomach never subsides. My hunger even drives me to stupidly pick a few unknown black berries before I notice the bell-shaped purple flowers growing among them. I laugh. How ironic it would be to be killed by my own namesake, the deadly nightshade. Cursing myself for my own carelessness, I drop the poisonous berries on the ground and squash them with my boot.
I was born and raised to be a survivor, but recently I can barely say I’m surviving. Maybe I’ve lost my touch, or maybe I’ve just been lucky these past four years. Sometimes I can’t help but miss my father; if he were here he would make sure I never missed a meal. But then again, if my father were here he would tell me to shut the hell up and stop feeling sorry for myself. Ah, good old dad. He would tell me not to think about what could be, but to focus on what is. The reality is my father isn’t here. He’s dead. I need to remember that, and I need to stop contemplating the “what ifs.” He died so that I could live; I’m not going to die too and have his whole effort be in vain; I can’t disrespect him like that. No, if I am going out, it is not going to be because of starvation. No way in hell will I let that happen.
The way I see it I have two options: travel out of my comfort zone into some of the more distant towns where there are bound to be more food stores to raid or continue scavenging in the forest like a dog. Both have their pros and cons. If I return to civilization, my
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