First Place – “The Widow” by Emily Grommet

Deirdre felt her age more than ever as she slowly sat up in bed. The house was quiet, as it always was with Seth having long since moved away to the big city. Her eyes couldn’t help but be pulled to the other side of the bed. It was empty. Cold. As it had been for months since Samuel passed away. She didn’t let that usual throb settle in her chest today. She stood up, letting out a soft groan as she moved towards the kitchen.

The smell of coffee grounds greeted her as she padded across the cool, wooden floor. She checked that there was enough water from last time before pressing the “On” button. As the machine sputtered and began to heat up, the sun was just peeking through the blinds. She nudged them aside, just enough to see the view. The yard was still covered in a soft sheen of dew. Ms. Mara’s house, a young divorced woman who had proven to be a kind neighbor, sat small against the sun where it lay closer to town.

She tore her attention away as the machine finished with a final grumble. She reached up, finding her favorite mug. It had been a Christmas present from a coworker a long time ago, its lettering long since faded. She reached for the full coffee carafe, ready to pour herself a cup when something caught her eye outside, just behind the old shed. Her eyes had been failing her more recently, but she could have sworn she’d seen something.

The coffee forgotten, she moved to the back door. The cold air greeted her, and she paused long enough to take her jacket down from the hook where she’d left it and slip it on. The porch stairs were their own struggle as she clung to the railing, moving down even as her knees protested. She was careful of the small rocks in the grass as she moved, not wanting to risk a fall.

“Hello? She couldn’t help but ask, even if she didn’t expect an answer. She turned the corner and found nothing but the other shed wall. She was being silly. It could have been an animal, maybe a deer. It was common here. That, or the neighbor kids from about a quarter mile down the road were messing around in her yard again. She’d caught them a few times before, shuffling around in that shed or messing with her flower bushes. But when she found the door still lodged just as she’d left it, a small concrete block ensuring animals couldn’t squeeze underneath the gap in the door, she sighed. There was no one here. Perhaps she really should get those glasses like Seth had suggested.

Ignoring the sting of the cold morning and its quiet, she moved back towards the house. She reached for that freshly prepared coffee with shaking hands, her cheeks flushed with exertion and the cold, when she paused. The coffee pot sat empty. It wasn’t even warm. She couldn’t help but stare for a moment. She had been certain she’d made coffee. Almost entirely sure. But when she reached for the pot and found it neither warm nor wet inside the pot, she almost wanted to laugh at herself. She must have mixed up what she’d done yesterday with today. That must have been it.

She filled the water reservoir to the line. The slow tap tap tap of the faucet dripping long after she shut it off made her smile. She would call Seth to come down here on the weekend to fix it. He would only make the trip when there was something for him to fix. Her phone was already ringing when she remembered what she’d said before about not calling him while he was at work. Then again, he hadn’t called her for some time. She let it ring.

You’ve reached Seth Hepburn. I’m away from the phone right now. Please leave a message after the beep.

Deirdre pressed the button to cancel the call quickly. He must be busy. She hoped he’d call her back later, when he had time. She took her mug, moving down the hall towards the living room. The hallway was darker, hidden from the light without windows. She sat in her plush armchair, letting her hand reach down blindly for her crochet bag on her right side, but she only grasped the soft fabric on the side of her chair. She leaned down, looking now, confused. Her bag wasn’t there. She looked around, and instead found it on the other side. It was strange, but not necessarily unusual. She could have just placed it on that side when she finished yesterday.

She shakes off the feeling, reclining back as she settles in for another day of crocheting. She’s mid-stitch, struggling with trembling hands but still determined to finish this blanket despite the way her fingers fail her, when the blaring of the phone interrupted the quiet so suddenly that it made her almost drop her crochet hook. She set down the half-formed blanket on the arm of the chair to pull her phone from her nightgown pocket. It was Seth.

“Hello, darling. I was just calling earlier to–” she greeted him warmly, happy to see he’d finally called.

“Mama,” Seth’s voice came through the phone, quiet and curt as it usually is when he was at work. “I’m busy. Why would you call me when you know I’m at work? I specifically asked you not to.”

“Oh, I know. I only thought… Well. The sink is leaking again, and I was hoping, if you aren’t too busy, that is, that you could come take a look at it. You know I’m no good with these things. And with my knees the way they are these days, I can hardly get down there anymore.” She said, her other hand fretting with the hem of her dress.

“Yeah, yeah. Got it. The sink. Anything else? Maybe something more emergent?”

He sounded upset with her. She hadn’t meant to be a bother. “Well, no. Not emergent. I just missed you, is all. It’s been a while since you’ve come down here, and I just wanted to check on you.”

“I’m doing fine, Mama. Really. Just real busy with work.”

She sighed. He always said that when she asked. “Alright, well, don’t work too hard. I’ll see you this weekend, right?”

“Yes, Mama.” He responded. She could hear muffled voices in the background. “Sorry, Mama, got to go. Talk to you later.”

He hung up the phone before she could say goodbye. She put the phone back into her pocket, lifting her project back up, the weight of the already done stitches settling in her lap as she continued where she’d left off.

A few hours had passed; the house was filled only with the small metallic creak of her chair as she rocked, working through each row. It wasn’t long before the day began to grate on her. She’d grown tired of crocheting and the suffocating quiet. She moved towards the kitchen, setting her project back into its bag and to its place on the right side of her chair.

As she moved around in the kitchen, readying food for a late afternoon lunch, she heard the wind chimes twinkle insistently on the porch. A storm was coming. The dark clouds that slowly edged closer to the house now cast the house in a shroud, making the pits and falls where the light from the windows couldn’t reach feel longer and fuller. The walls sighed as the wind blew against them from outside. She could hear the floor sharing its burden, creaking upstairs.

She finished up with lunch, cleaning the pot she’d used to heat soup from last night’s supper, when she suddenly felt weary. It could have been the change in pressure from the storm, causing her bones to feel more achy than usual. It could have been the weight of the quiet, the house much too still. She waded through the dark beyond the windows of the living room, letting her fingers trace the textured wall of the hallway as she moved towards her room. With this little amount of light in this part of the house, it was hard to see anything more than fuzzy outlines, and the wall helped to steady her.

She paused at the bathroom in the hall, deciding it’d probably be best to do her business before going to lie down. It’ll be harder to get up if she had already laid down and had to go. After she finished, she moved to wash her hands. She was clumsy, only trying to grab the bar of soap from the dish when she accidentally knocked the toothbrush holder onto the floor. She bent down, ignoring the twinge in her back as she reached. She picked up hers, a pink toothbrush, then a green toothbrush, once Samuel’s before he passed.

She suddenly dropped his toothbrush like it had burned her. The bristles were wet. It was impossible. She certainly hadn’t used it. Honestly, she should have thrown it away months ago but kept it there anyway. Her mind raced with possibilities. It stopped suddenly on an answer closer to reality, quickly satisfying the pained throb in her heart that had come with her fear. She must have knocked it over a few days ago, wet from the sink bowl when it had fallen in. Yes, that was it. Why else would it be wet?

She put them both back into the toothbrush holder, moving it to the other side of the sink to be out of the way. She shut the light off, shutting the door before she could think about it a moment longer. Her head throbbed, and all she wanted was to go lie down. Her bedroom was cool, the sounds of twigs outside her window scratching at the glass as the wind tangled with them.

She sighed, lowering herself down slowly against the mattress, lifting her feet as she slips beneath the sheets. The handmade blanket, one of her own, was soft against her face as she curled on her side. As the sounds of her settling subsided, she felt the empty weight of her husband’s side of the bed like an open wound. She couldn’t help but let her hand reach across, needing to convince herself again that he was long gone. That she was truly alone here.

She felt the lightning bolt of terror as it shot through her. His pillow was warm.

Second Place – “Viridian Blood” by Ashlyn Burns

Mirelle didn’t believe in anything, not in the sky and not in the ground beneath her feet. Everything crumbled under time’s weight; the world was quicksand. She used to wake up to the smell of chicken Florentine crepes and a kiss on the forehead, but now she ate stale cereal for breakfast, if anything at all. Her mother’s melodies no longer filled the cabin either. She was busy in her grave. So no, Mirelle didn’t believe in anything.

Well, except for one thing.

Mirelle believed an army of insects guarded her each night, taking turns in orderly shifts. Locusts, cicadas, lunar moths, alderflies. For as long as she could remember, a lone critter would perch on her windowsill, perhaps drawn by the shadowy bur oak forest surrounding her cabin. Eventually, coming home each evening to a new chitinous face felt more ordinary than the setting sun.

Since her mother’s death, she’d kept track of them in her leather-bound journal. Yeshi the millipede had visited 83 times; Marlais—a butterfly with cyan wings and a twitchy antenna—only six. And Diesel, that spirited dragonfly, zoomed in circles outside her window at least twice a week. His wings glowed like an infrared image, streaked with sapphire blues and carnelian reds.

Hugging herself, Mirelle watched Diesel perform elaborate tricks beneath the looming moon. He darted against the contorted silhouettes of barren trees. Mirelle giggled, then pursed her lips as tears threatened to spill. Her chest tightened. She wished she could hold the little creatures that returned to her night after night. She knew them and their quirks better than she knew herself.

The clock sounded from the kitchen. Cuckoo. Cuckoo.

“Shoot,” she whispered. “Two a.m.?”

Mirelle drew the curtains, switched off her lamp, and cocooned herself in blankets against the biting chill of the night. She felt like a swaddled baby, safe in bed under Diesel’s protection. His buzzing outside the window lulled her like white noise. She breathed and breathed and almost fell into a deep slumber.

Then a silence overwhelmed the bedroom. The cabin creaked, giving her goosebumps. Mirelle squeezed her eyes shut, but sleep became impossible the longer she waited to hear Diesel’s buzzing again. She broke free from her cocoon and sprang out of bed. Drawing the curtains, she worried her windowsill would be vacant. Yet Diesel perched there motionless—so serenely unlike himself. He tilted his head at her. She wondered what he was thinking.

As if in answer, Diesel’s narrow sheath-like shoulders began to shake. He buried his head in his delicate forelimbs. She frowned upon seeing the creature grieve in a way that reminded Mirelle of herself. He needed company now, after all those nights of being there for her. She

unlatched the window and pushed it open. A wind swept Mirelle’s hair across her face, and she tossed it aside.

Diesel flew into Mirelle’s room and landed on her nose. Mirelle laughed, and she thought she heard a high-pitched titter. She adored that bug’s whimsical mannerisms. Diesel settled on the palm of her hand, and the two of them sat in placidity. Mirelle smiled as her mind quieted for the first time since her mother died.

Diesel looked up at her, studying her face. Soon, his eyes seemed to narrow.

He catapulted from her hand and flew about the room in a frenzy. Mirelle cried out for him. “Diesel!” She chased him in circles, swiping desperately. “Diesel, please!” He landed on her drawing of cocoons. Mirelle lunged for him, catching her foot on the leg of the desk chair. As she went tumbling, Diesel darted towards the floor. For one suspended moment, Mirelle saw Diesel beneath her. She struck the floor, landing on top of him. A viscous substance spread across her arm.

Viridian blood.

Diesel’s blood seeped into her skin, and he vanished from sight. Tears burned her eyes. One after the other, they fell like flames against her cheeks. She lifted her arm to wipe them away, then froze when her hand appeared a peculiar color—that same viridian green.

Her hand contorted, her fingers lengthening and shortening. Her right arm stretched several feet long and snapped back like a slinky. One by one, her other limbs followed. She shrank, and shrank, and shrank. Bug-painted furniture towered above her, and she found herself surrounded by encyclopedias strewn across the floor. When she reached the ground, she caught her reflection in a bowl of half-eaten cereal. Diesel’s winged body stared back. Mirelle searched for herself behind those beady eyes but saw only eternal black. She grasped for memories of her mother but found only a void.

***

A dragonfly cocked its head at the sound of snoring. It studied a girl curled beneath a cocoon of blankets, her vaguely familiar face peaceful in sleep.

Third Place – “Strange Sunset” by Artemis Simpson

It was just a simple miscalculation, a brief blink in time, something that I had promised myself repeatedly would never happen.

But just like that, my entire world was over.

And I didn’t even know it yet.

****

The room reeks of a haunting sense of impending doom, a terrifying reality since the start of the apocalypse. But the seemingly distant damnation that weights heavy upon us all is a light load compared to the immediate future that stings my eyes and crushes my heart.

My friend sits before me, back turned, staring through the firestation’s windows, looking up at the setting sun as it casts an ominous blood-red glow across the hopeless sky. The room is flooded with the color, casting my friend and me in a strange, almost alien palette. There is not a single sound, nothing to disturb the moment.

It just doesn’t feel real.

But we sit here in stillness. Someone whose name I never really caught, a name I saw only in flashes when they were storing their firefighter badge or passing their ID to me to store away during the few supply runs we had together.

How long they had survived with me, I really had no idea. It felt like each minute was an hour long, each day just another year off my lifespan. The reality that life will never be the same really has a way of killing you slowly, I suppose.

But despite this, we shared small victories over a cooked roast, drank so much alcohol it could’ve killed a normal man, and prepared for a future of farming and self-sustainability once we established a safe place to stay. We packed whatever we could find into our sling bags and protected each other when we could, trying our best to ensure each other’s safety.

For all I know, we could be the only two people left in this shithole.

We fought to thrive in a world where death wasn’t a distant stranger, it was a stealthy, infectious killer waiting with a rotting grimace for you to misjudge a distance, a swing, or a turn across a corner.

And infectious, it was.

I look down at the axe in my hands with tears in my eyes. I’ve felt no sadness like this before, no grief over my long-gone past life or the unknown condition of the few people I did know before the apocalypse that didn’t want to kill me. I did not mourn the looming threat of prison that hung over me just for trying to survive in a world that hated me as a poor person, a world that held the luxury of food and shelter and a comfortable life in front of me and took it away when I did try to work my way through the system properly.

But this?

I can’t even stand to look at them, trying to find anything else to think about, to look at, to fill my brain with and try to distract myself.

I can’t bring myself to do what I must.

My hands tremble as I hear them breathe a long, heavy sigh. Every muscle in my body shivers and tightens with every second that I force myself to look down at their calm demeanor. They aren’t even scared. The dying sunlight shines on what I can see of their face in such a way that they seem almost at peace.

What they said to me earlier fills my mind and continues to play over and over and over, getting louder and louder by the second, “Just find my beret, okay?”

They smiled in that moment.

What I wouldn’t give to go back now to stop all of this from happening.

The sun continues to darken the sky as it escapes this hellish place and retreats to safer lands, covering us both now in a deep, baleful crimson. But its escape is slow, and it feels like this strange sunset will last forever. As if the celestial being itself is taking its time, letting us know that, unlike us, it does have somewhere safe to return to. As if it knows, unlike us, it doesn’t have to make painful choices. As if it knows that we’re stuck here forever, and it’s telling us there’s no point in fighting.

As if it’s punishing us for hoping for even a fleeting moment that there would be a future in this godforsaken land worth fighting for.

Oh, how I used to love sunsets. How I used to look forward to them, even.

What will never be again.

Breathe in.

My trembling hands raise as my body takes over, my vision blurring with tears. The excitement of earlier today plays through my head again – us clearing out the firestation, finding all of the free clothing and axes and everything we would ever need to survive, hyping ourselves up that we might just be okay.

Breathe out.

The axe comes down swiftly, and their breath ceases without a cry of pain or fear. Hot blood splatters across the windows before me. Even as I flinch, trying to pull my face away, I’m not fast enough. Their blood covers me, and immediately my skin starts to crawl, and I’m drowning in a horrific cocktail of emotions.

They fall to the floor, completely limp.

I turn away for only a moment after I see them fall.

But the sound that immediately fills the room is not my struggles to stop myself from screaming or my attempts to muffle the cries that do escape my body. It is something that raises every hair on my neck, brings a chill to my spine.

My brain doesn’t even have time to truly realize what is happening before I’m reaching for the axe again, every vein in my body running cold with terror.

Not like this, not like this, not like this.

A choking, gurgling growl fills the space between us. Their corpse rises, the massive slash in their neck not impending them one bit from shambling towards me with a new-found, mindless determination.

I find the axe in the quickly darkening room and hoist it up just in time for their teeth to snap against the handle. Their dull eyes don’t even truly meet mine as they lunge into me, growling and snarling and hissing, and I stumble backwards.

A cold pang of fear stabs into my chest as they lean against the handle and push me further backwards, their hands ripping at the clothing on my arms. I shove the handle against their mouth and throw them backwards. and a cry of terror escapes my gritted teeth.

They stumble, their unsure footing sending them to the ground with a heavy thump!

I throw myself forward, desperate to stand over them to stop them from getting up.

And before my feet even stop moving, I raise the axe up, and throw it down with all of the force I can muster.

Crunch!

A roar of pain erupts from their mouth as it slams into their shoulder.

Crunch!

Their eyes roll back for a brief moment as the blade buries itself into their chest.

Squelch!

Their brains and blood erupt from around the axe blade as it finally crushes through their skull, ending their struggle permanently. The sound of it rings through my e-

Fuck!

A scorching pain sears up my right arm, and I drop the axe instinctually, immediately holding my right hand against my chest.

The pain brings tears to my eyes, and I start to tear the handmade bandage off before I really think about what I’m doing. Every single wrap I undo of the covering makes me wince in pain, and me struggling to catch my breath doesn’t help my attempts to stay as quiet as possible at all.

Wait. What am I doing?

I stop myself, shaking, panting, covered in sweat, and really look at my clothing.

I’m covered in blood. My friend’s blood. My infected friend’s blood.

My dead friend’s blood.

Bile rises in my throat, and I have to fight myself not to throw up right where I stand.

It’s over. It’s all over. I am alone. There is no one coming for me.

There is no one coming to save me.

My chest clenches, and I drop to my knees, covering my mouth as reality overtakes me. The sun is gone now, the room completely pitch-black, and I cannot even see them. But I know they’re dead. They’re gone, the person that I met, the person that helped keep me alive, the person that planned to watch my back.

But I just didn’t watch their’s.

The sounds that fill the room are mine, this time. Animalistic, hopeless, dreadful sounds. My lungs fail to fill me as I scream through bloody hands, the room spinning and melting and smearing until it all just looks like a lake at the darkest hour of midnight.

But no matter how much I cry out for them to come back, no matter how much I beg for it all to be a terrifying dream, my throat goes hoarse, and I am still alone with my friend’s corpse.

***

I stare at what should be myself as I wash my hands, but I do not recognize the face looking back at me. Even after I am completely clean, dressed in clean clothes from the firestation’s clothing dryer, even after I am finally prepared to change my bandage, I cannot make out what I am looking at in my reflection.

Pulsing, sharp pain rips through my arm as I undress my wound, and I grit my teeth as the final layer of ripped clothing is pulled away. Fresh blood starts to leak from the gash, and I realize with dread that it’s deeper than I originally expected. I don’t know what else to do other than disinfect it and cover it with fresh bandages, so that’s exactly what I end up doing, pushing my lips together as not to let the whimper of pain escape me as it feels like the disinfectant stabs my hand dozens of times over.

That doesn’t help the anxiety of having such a bad wound, but at least it’s clean for now.

As I step outside of the bathroom, exhaustion finds its way into my bones. Even though I feel like I can’t sleep mentally, my body is absolutely drained. I find a semi-comfortable chair in one of the firestation’s offices and drag it to a large storage room that leads into a small laundry room of sorts. At least if I sleep like this, I have two doors between me and the undead.

I lock the storage room’s door and barricade it with some furniture, rest on the chair, and within seconds, I slip into rest.

***

A bone-chilling screech of agony explodes in my ears, and I jolt awake, gasping, my heart thundering within my chest. The world in front of me is blurred with fading images of snapping, snarling teeth and dirty, bloodied hands pulling me down, ripping my flesh from my body, turning me into one of them.

But it wasn’t me, was it?

I try to shake the thought from my mind, but even as I unbarricade the room and find that the firestation is still safe, it bounces around my mind endlessly.

I stand in front of the door to the room that their body is in, holding the handle with hesitancy.

They’re gone. I know they are.

So why am I waiting?

At that thought, my clothes start to feel too warm, and I decide to shed the leather coat I’m wearing before I move them. The trip from the storage room back to the empty presentation room gives me enough time to clear my mind and find my resolve.

The door creaks eerily as it swings open, and I stop at the threshold for only a second before going in. I approach their body slowly, almost like how someone would approach a sleeping animal, not sure if it will awaken at any moment.

But as the light from outside shines on their corpse and I stare into their dead, empty eyes, I know there is no risk of them coming back. Still, I drag them out by their ankles, pulling them outside slowly. The firestation seems impossibly big as I drag them, and I’m not sure if that’s from exertion or the fact that I cannot look at the body I’m dragging without wanting to throw up.

Still, as I lay them in their poorly-dug shallow grave, I find myself hesitate for a moment before I start to cover their corpse with dirt. Their face is unrecognizable, the axe mutilating their features beyond repair. But as I stare at them, I can’t help but remember their happiness as they counted the number of weapons they found for us while looting, the way they explained how we could build a safe place to stay at the courthouse before we realized just how terrible of an idea that was, the way they cooked for me and didn’t think twice before sharing what little they did have of their food with me.

How they sat in front of the window and accepted the reality of their life, how their hair glowed in that sunset, how their breathing was so calm as they stared off to a beautiful horizon we couldn’t enjoy together.

The way that, despite everything thrown at them, they were so human.

I look away, trying not to cry but failing miserably. I allow myself a few tears, and thank them for their kindness, offering only my words before I lay them to rest.

***

It feels like my skin is burning under my clothing. Even with the cool breeze of the afternoon hours and in just a tank top, my skin is slick with sweat. The cool water of the firestation’s sink helps, and I have to admit, it does feel nice to be clean again.

Well, to have the appearance of being clean, at least.

Because everytime I look down at my hands, I see their blood again, every room I’m in, I hear their struggling, wet gurgles, every single corner I turn, I expect there to be a million of them waiting, panting, growling, teeth bared, arms outstretched, reaching-

My lighter strikes without producing anything, but when I strike it again, it releases a bright orange, healthy flame. The smoke that fills my lungs calms me and steadies my hands, but my heart is still racing, even after the cigarette is smoked down to the butt.

Eh, another won’t hurt.

Strike!

I take a long, heavy pull from the cigarette and try to relax. I take my time smoking, pacing around the storage room, sitting down, doing anything to busy my mind.

But it doesn’t have the same effect as it usually does. I can’t get the sound of their screams out of my mind as the zombies bit them, their cries for me to “kill them, get them off of me! HELP!”

I hear that specific word ring for much longer than anything else, and it brings a heavy, deep sense of guilt to my chest. It feels like my heart is going to collapse in on itself no matter how much I try to shake it from my mind.

Strike!

Before I know it, I look down to see four cigarette butts on the ground.

Still, no perfect release. No absolute calmness, no buzz, nothing that helps me truly steady myself like they should.

Like they always have.

A bead of sweat rolls down my face. I’m sure that I’m just stressed out, that I’m probably just overthinking this. It’s not that big of a deal. But as I try swallow down the thought, I hear something terrifyingly familiar.

Hands, bodies, dozens of them, scraping against a door, banging. Trying to get inside.

Did I cough? Did I drop something without realizing it?

Did I accidentally scream?

No, stop, I wouldn’t have done that. I would’ve known if I did that.

Right?

Before I can let myself get entangled with anxiety, I keep an eye on the door in front of me, and reach for one of the firefighter axes to my left.

But I don’t quite put enough force into my grip, and it slips from my hand, clanging against the metal storage shelves before I can catch it.

Fuck!

My breath hitches in my lungs. Every hair on my body raises, and I feel the nauseating sensation of adrenaline rushing through my body, electrifying every nerve ending in my body.

The sounds from outside stop.

I wait for what feels like forever, standing painfully still, terrified to move.

Nothing.

I brace myself before nudging the door in front of me open with my feet, preparing to swing at whatever moves.

Nothing. No sound. No movement.

I crouch, trying to minimize the noise I make, and rush from door to door, peeking through windows, checking every single exit and entrance.

Nothing.

What the fuck?

I sigh, but my muscles refuse to relax even after I’ve checked every single possible entry twice-over. The once-safe building starts to feel malicious, like it’s alive and knows I’m here, and it’s telling every single one of those monsters exactly where I am.

I need some fresh air. I am completely soaked with sweat, but as I step outside, I feel an alarming burning in my stomach.

Oh god.

I can feel it beaming down on me as it waits to approach the horizon, staring with a blinding hatred. But I can’t look up.

My stomach flips, and I lean against a pole only a moment too late, bile burning through my throat as my entire body empties itself of anything I had left that could sustain me.

But the nausea doesn’t go away, even after I sit and dry-heave, gasping and struggling to breathe through lungs that suddenly feel like they have no function left to serve me. I rest against the pole weakly, desperately trying to catch my breath and wipe the spit and vomit and sweat from my face.

But the world closes in on me then, and I’m hit with something I’ve been trying to hide from myself with the countless cigarettes, the constant shedding of my protective clothing, the cleaning myself every single time I come into contact with them…

I peel away the bandages on my hand, my vision beginning to narrow as everything becomes so loud, too loud, so much, so many eyes and voices and sounds and it’s all just too MUCH.

The gash isn’t infected.

No, in fact, it’s healing quite well, all things considered. Even after the slight irritation that I caused from using my axe, it’s not leaking pus, it’s not red, it’s not more painful than usual…

Yes, indeed, my wound is not infected.

But as I stumble back to the interior of the firestation, I feel the weakness spreading throughout my limbs, my stomach still burning but having nothing left to empty up. I close the door to the presentation room behind me and put every single chair that I can manage in front of it, trapping myself in the empty, bloody room to the best of my ability.

And I sit where my nameless friend once had.

Staring up at the sun.

Waiting for it to set just as they did.

Categories: Life