NickBrown
09-11-2013, 04:01 PM
“and nothing will ever be as it once was. All we can do is carry on, for the sake of all mankind.”
The old TV went black, along with the lights. The generators started to kick in. We wouldn’t hear anything, since we lived an hour and a half from the closest city. But teacher said that it wouldn’t even matter; that’s why we went to the shelter.
“Come here, baby, stay close to me,” my mom spit out in between sobs. My dad had a really hard look on his face, like he was looking at the wall, but he really wasn’t. I guess it hadn’t really sunk in for him.
“They won’t get all of us. There’s no way.” It had been an hour since the lights had gone out, and my mom’s sobs had already turned into soft, delicate whimpers. Her think eye shadow created an almost half-mask on the bottom part of her face. My dad continued to stare at the U.S. flag pinned to the wall. “They just can’t get us all. I won’t let them,” he said.
A week later, and the weird clicking machine on the wall said we still couldn’t go outside. I had almost begun to get used to life down there. It really wasn’t that bad. The light was dim, and the food was dry, but I didn’t have to go to school.
My mom and dad didn’t talk much. My mom just rocked in the corner, and my dad played with his radio, calling out to people with names like “whiskey tango one,” and stuff like that. Nobody has called him back, though.
It’s been a month now. Mom just sleeps most of the time. Her eyes look smaller, and I think she lost weight. I heard my dad talking to her one night when I was supposed to be sleeping. He said we wouldn’t have enough food by next week. We’d have to go out. She asked him if it was safe. He said it wasn’t. I guess I get to go outside next week. I mean, I liked not having school, but I do miss seeing the sun.
I won’t make it. My hair is all gone, and I don’t have the strength to walk. My dad is carrying me now, but he’s going slower now. Mom fell down a few minutes outside of the shelter. Dad said it was a good thing I’d been eating. Now we’re headed for a “big fort” somewhere down the road. My dad said that they can cure us, and make everything better again. He said they can bring Mom back, so I don’t have to worry about. All I have to do is close my eyes and “dream of tomorrow.” I am feeling tired. I think I’ll close my eyes, now.
The old TV went black, along with the lights. The generators started to kick in. We wouldn’t hear anything, since we lived an hour and a half from the closest city. But teacher said that it wouldn’t even matter; that’s why we went to the shelter.
“Come here, baby, stay close to me,” my mom spit out in between sobs. My dad had a really hard look on his face, like he was looking at the wall, but he really wasn’t. I guess it hadn’t really sunk in for him.
“They won’t get all of us. There’s no way.” It had been an hour since the lights had gone out, and my mom’s sobs had already turned into soft, delicate whimpers. Her think eye shadow created an almost half-mask on the bottom part of her face. My dad continued to stare at the U.S. flag pinned to the wall. “They just can’t get us all. I won’t let them,” he said.
A week later, and the weird clicking machine on the wall said we still couldn’t go outside. I had almost begun to get used to life down there. It really wasn’t that bad. The light was dim, and the food was dry, but I didn’t have to go to school.
My mom and dad didn’t talk much. My mom just rocked in the corner, and my dad played with his radio, calling out to people with names like “whiskey tango one,” and stuff like that. Nobody has called him back, though.
It’s been a month now. Mom just sleeps most of the time. Her eyes look smaller, and I think she lost weight. I heard my dad talking to her one night when I was supposed to be sleeping. He said we wouldn’t have enough food by next week. We’d have to go out. She asked him if it was safe. He said it wasn’t. I guess I get to go outside next week. I mean, I liked not having school, but I do miss seeing the sun.
I won’t make it. My hair is all gone, and I don’t have the strength to walk. My dad is carrying me now, but he’s going slower now. Mom fell down a few minutes outside of the shelter. Dad said it was a good thing I’d been eating. Now we’re headed for a “big fort” somewhere down the road. My dad said that they can cure us, and make everything better again. He said they can bring Mom back, so I don’t have to worry about. All I have to do is close my eyes and “dream of tomorrow.” I am feeling tired. I think I’ll close my eyes, now.