Page 10 of Day Death (Brutes of Bristlebrook Trilogy)

How is it possible that I’m meeting someone like him now? Someone fun and strong and kind. Someone who will help me, right when I need it the most. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t have that kind of luck, not on an average day, somaybe he is right.

Maybe our charms do work.

“I’m Simon,” he murmurs, and I blink, startled.

Simon. My book and the hunt and my glasses all turn together for a moment before it settles. His name is Simon.

Shaking my head at myself, I smile wryly. How did I get to happy ever after before I even got to first names?

Typical.

This is how I ended up with a husband on my eighteenth birthday.

“I’m Eden. Eden Anderson.”

I hold out my hand, and he runs his eyes over my face for a moment before he looks down. Quirking a brow, he takes it, then tugs me a stumbling, fluster-footed step closer.

“Hello Eden Anderson.” His gaze softens. “I’m very glad to know you.”

Are we... going to kiss? I really don’t know much about these things but it feels like a kissing moment.

His eyes darken, but I hesitate.

It’s not that I’m opposed, exactly, to the kissing. I just really need to brush my teeth before we do it.

I can still taste leftover carrot.

But he doesn’t lean in.

Instead, Simon picks up my glasses from the desk, and the long twine he tied dangles from the back. He hangs my glasses around my neck, until they rest securely beside my necklace.

He fixed a problem.

My problem.

He fixed it for me.

I breathe in shakily, touched.

“There. Now you won’t go losing sight of me.” His fingers brush my cheek, just briefly, then he steps back. “We should make a plan. You know where the maps are? Local? Detailed as possible. Get them for me?”

We .

It’s like his light has swamped me, and I just suppress my giddy smile.

It’s not just up to me. There’s an us now. I don’t need to solve all the problems myself—not the immediate ones or the big ones.

“Simon says?” I ask archly, and a happy, squirming flutter starts up in my stomach when he rolls his eyes.

I think I could get used to it, following orders.

“They’re in the back. Let me get them.” But I’m already halfway there, and Simon’s right behind me. Crouching down, I pull free drawer after drawer. “Topographic or geologic? Never mind, I’ll get both. Why not?”

Susie isn’t here to scold me for incautious use of library materials.

I’m already rolling them out over one of the large center tables when it finally occurs to me to frown.

“Why do we need these? There’s an evacuation point, isn’t there? I figured we’d just wait until things died down outside—” Poor choice of words, Eden. “I mean, that we’d wait until things settled down, then we’d go there.”

Simon bends over the maps. “Ah, so, about that. We only have two deputies out in Harlow, me and old man Angus, and he was due to retire about ten years ago.”

My giddiness begins to fade.

Fast.

“But the evacuation point, you said?—”

He looks up at me, nodding. “Yeah, it’s there. Or, it’s meant to be. But I don’t know that it’s going to do much good. Only about ten cops phoned in when Angus put the call out, and... well, you saw what it was like. I think...” Rubbing the back of his neck, he sighs. “I think we might be better off with a different plan.” He looks back down at the maps, pointing at a green patch. “Like here. The forest might be good for a bit. My dad used to take me hunting there. We could camp.”

I don’t look down at the map.

My throat works as I swallow—as I swallow again, and somehow still find no way to dislodge the abrupt lump in it.

“But... the people out there. They’re relying on that evacuation point.” My gaze drops to his uniform, to the shiny badge on his chest. “They’re relying on you .”

He can’t just leave them.

They’re alone in the dark.

Simon’s brows come down, and his jaw flexes as his eyes skid away. He scoffs, then runs a hand over his jaw. “Look, I’ve had this job a week. Jokes aside, end of days wasn’t in the job description.”

I see the fear, the defensiveness—I’ve been well-trained to spot those—and I know better than to prick at a man’s ego, or think I know better, but all I can think of is the terrified faces of the crowd as they scattered.

It’s all I can think of, until . . .

“Get fucked and die, Piggy.”

I purse my lips before any accusations fly free. That officer died, doing his duty.

I don’t want Simon to die.

Simon is the only person who is helping me right now, and I can’t do this alone.

“Maybe.. . maybe we should open the doors. We can help people, together. Get them inside?” I don’t know why tears are threatening me again. Why I suddenly feel so confused as I whisper, “Other people need a safe place too.”

He straightens, shaking his head, and his voice becomes earnest. “No, Eden, it’s not safe. I don’t want you in danger.”

The thought is briefly warming, but it quickly fades to ash.

He doesn’t want me in danger... or himself?

The thought is unkind, and I berate myself for it immediately. I saw him helping people. The man in the wheelchair. The families. The couple with the shoelaces.

He turned up, when so many didn’t.

He’s good .

Bolstered, I urge delicately, “We can be careful. We can save people. They’re dying out there.”

Simon studies me. Slowly, he walks back over, until he’s in my space again, large and steady and warm. He runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek.

No. The bruise, where that man slapped me for no good reason. It aches, even under the gentle touch.

“There’s no saving those people now, Eden Anderson. I want to as much as you do, I swear. But there’s nothing we can do. Not when they’re like that. You’ll only get yourself killed,” he whispers.

My breath catches, and I turn my cheek into his touch. It’s only partially to hide my face.

He knows better, doesn’t he? With all his training?

He knows better than me?

“So we... we don’t help anyone else?” I wet my dry lips. “We just let them... die?”

His hand cups my jaw, and he bends to peer into my face. “No, no , I didn’t mean that. You can help them. Sure, we can help them. We just... don’t risk our lives to do it, you know?”

Slippery feelings thread through my warmth. Uncomfortable, guilty pangs.

Silent, I meet his eyes—the syrupy brown, bright with concern and the reflected shine of the light.

Is that the only reason he helped me? The families? The man in the wheelchair? Because it didn’t risk his life?

Don’t be silly, Eden—of course it is.

Angry heat burns behind my eyes, and I press my lips tight as I scold myself.I scold myself for the hope and the giddiness and for being a stupid little girl who imagines happy ever afters after five minutes of kindness.

I’m a stranger, and people just don’t risk their lives for strangers. Bravery like that is for storybooks.

It doesn’t exist in the real world.

I don’t voice the thought, but shame flashes through his eyes as if he hears it anyway. “Look, you’ve got to look out for yourself first. You think anyone out there is doing any different? Keep yourself alive. Don’t put yourself in danger for anyone else, Eden Anderson, not for anything. They won’t do the same for you.”

My throat cords as I hold back miserable, hateful tears. They well up anyway.

With every word, he confirms all my worst, most private fears.

I think of Henry. Of Mr. Flores, leaving me alone on the stairwell. And I can’t even blame him. Them. Any of them.

Because it makes sense.

Of course you should save yourself. I’ve thought it before. I felt it, out in that crowd, and I think I’ve known it most of my life.

I’m the only one watching my back.

I drag in a pained breath. I can’t trust my voice just yet so I only nod to him, then turn back to the map.

How many people are hurting right now? How many people are as scared as me?

My tears smudge the ink.

Wet, miserable drops.

“This... this forest is better,” I finally whisper. “It’s farther, but it’s deep. We... we can hide better there.”

I don’t even have the presence of mind to couch my suggestion as a question.

God, is this who we are now? Is this what the world is ? People who don’t step out of their bubble to help others? People who are hurt or afraid, who need medicine and care, and who are in desperate need of big, fearless hearts... and not this shriveled, cowardly thing I have?

I’ve always thought of myself as good. Less than some, of course, but I’m a good person. I am kind to strangers and I donate my change. I’m polite and follow the law and— damn it—none of it matters .

I’m not good.

Surely I can’t be, the world can’t be, if we only help when it costs us nothing .

Maybe there is a beast... Maybe it’s only us.

More tears fall, and I swipe them away.

Good or not, that doesn’t matter either. I’m safe, and I’m not alone. That’s all that matters, isn’t it? When it comes to survival? The next day is all that matters.

So why, even though I’m in this haven with a nice boy and his pretty mouth... do I suddenly feel so very much alone again.

In moments, I’m being wrapped up in gentle arms, and he’s murmuring apologies into my hair. I stay there, maybe for hours, with my face buried against his chest. I stay there until the muted screams stop outside and the gunfire falls silent.

That’s it then , I think. My eyes are raw from crying. Simon said, and it is so.

We’re safe.

I wonder how many people died on our welcome mat so we could stay that way?

I pull back, letting him move away to trace out the path from Harlow to the forest.

Eventually, Simon rolls up the map, then squeezes my arm. “Come on, we should go while it’s quiet.”

Numb, I nod, then collect up my bag. We’re almost at the door when he pulls me to a stop.

“It’s okay, you know?” he says softly. “It’s really okay to choose yourself.”

From somewhere, I work up a smile for him. It doesn’t fit right, but I’m not sure he can tell. His hand drops to mine, gripping it tight.

I look at the join, my heart bruised.

I don’t want to live in a world where everyone only chooses themselves.

“Maybe we can choose each other.” I glance up, and I almost smile at the surprised pink that stains his cheeks.

Simon searches my face for a long moment, then squeezes my palm. “I’d like that, Eden Anderson.”

It stings my throat, but my smile becomes more real, and he winks, then unholsters his gun as I pull my keys back out.

Peering out the window, he nods, so I unlock the doors, and he comes over to crack them open.

Then, hand in hand, we creep out into the night.

Simon steers me through the street, angling his body to block the convenience store. Again and again, he turns me to avoid crimson puddles and fleshy lumps, and I let him.

It doesn’t stop the sticky self-loathing from working its way under my skin.

They were so close .

So close, and I did nothing.

It’s past midnight now, maybe well past, but the moon is hiding from us, and I don’t know how to tell the time for sure now that my phone has died. I don’t think it matters.

Neither the night, nor Simon, can hide everything.

I still see them as we turn into the next street. A boot here. A ponytail dipping in the gutter there. I can’t smell books anymore—only urine and feces.

Simon’s hand stays in mine, dragging me forward.

He’s right, though.

It’s so very, very quiet.

At least, until it isn’t.

There’s a shift in the shadowed alley ahead, and I immediately pull back on his hand.

“Stop. Simon, stop,” I whisper when he tugs me harder.

He frowns, then glances at the shadows. They’re now still—and so very quiet.

I eye the alley, darker, blacker than the rest, all my instincts prickling. “Another way.”

“ This is the way.” He squeezes my hand and waves the gun in his other. “Trust me, okay? I have this.”

He has this.

It’s what I thought earlier, wasn’t it? He’s the one with the training. I only have feelings—and that doesn’t seem like so very much at all.

So why won’t they stop screaming ?

As we get closer, tension winds around me in knotted, anxious loops. Maybe we should just go back to the library. Wait until dawn. It’s only two streets away.

But it’s too late.

We’re almost beside the alley, and I can’t breathe for the dread.

It’s there.

The shadows shift again, and I scream in terror. A can clatters. Metal glints, and my ears ring like pealing bells, as a garbage bag bursts open, and why is it so loud ?

I yank my hand back as Simon shoots into the shadows with a curse, but it goes wide.

“Fuck, Eden. What are you doing?”

His curse sounds far away.

He lets my hand go, swearing again as he swings back to the alley, lifting his gun with panic in his eyes...

And then he staggers back.

Stops.

He stops, and at first, I don’t understand it.

A double-barreled shotgun clatters to the ground, and I stare at it.

Gently, a slender, hollow-cheeked woman steps from the dark, and she takes the gun from Simon’s raised hand. It slips free easily. Like a last breath.

“What... what did you do?” I whisper, and she startles, clutching the gun to her chest.

I know her.

I stare at her glasses.

I remember her screams and her back as she ran. I tried to save her, and still she.. . she...

“I needed it,” she pleads. “I was almost out, so I needed it. I need it more than him.”

She’s just a waif, a teenager, her cheeks silvered with tears.

A shotgun at her feet.

“Why is there blood on your hands?” I ask, confused.

It’s splattered her.

Not just her hands. Her cheeks, her chest. She’s covered in red rain.

“There isn’t.” She sobs, backing away.

Simon drops to one knee, touching his stomach. His hand comes away red, too.

“Why is there blood on your hands, Simon?” I ask, but tears are already running down my face, and the words are a moan of denial.

“There’s not!” the girl shouts.

She turns, with silver on her cheeks and red on her hands, running away from us with Simon’s gun.

Alone.

She’s alone, I’m alone.

We’re all so, so alone.

“Eden? Eden, help. I can’t... something’s...” Simon looks up at me, and his face is strained. Uncertain. A vein throbs at his temple. “Something’s wrong.”

I fall back, then slide down the alley wall as I see the gaping wound in his stomach. His uniform blown open. The dark, growing stain.

“Please don’t.” Salt stings my lips as I beg him. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

Fear bleeds into his eyes.

Something soars overhead, low in the sky, but all I can see is the blood. He’s leaking out onto the filthy pavement. Another crimson pool to step over. Another red pool to forget.

He clutches at his stomach.

My ears are ringing. I press my palms against my burning eyes. Against the sight of him dying. My glasses fall, fall for the thousandth time tonight, but they catch on the necklace he made me, and I crumple. My stomach cramps as I scream silently into my legs.

“Staunch . . . Eden, staunch it.”

“I can’t .” Snot runs from my nose as I groan.

I can’t do it.

I can’t do this alone.

The clouds above us part, like they’re opening doors to somewhere new. Only they’re not pearlescent and bright. These clouds are roiling, tumbling—black and grey and livid with electricity.

No one is taking Simon away on wings of comfort.

This is what we deserve.

“Eden, please . . . please help me.”

His plea makes me drop my hands, but only to shake my head at him wordlessly.

There’s no point. There’s a hole the size of my fist in his stomach.

It’s not very silent anymore, out here. It’s not still. The packs may have moved on to other streets for now, but I can still hear looting and death.

The hunt is still on.

Fear bites into me. Loneliness swallows me.

“It.. . hurts.” Tears start slipping over his paling cheeks.

My lip trembles, and my teeth dig into it. The whole alley smells like death.

Don’t put yourself in danger for anyone else, Eden Anderson, not for anything.

“I can’t stay here,” I plead back, shaking with sobs.

Simon falls into the gutter, tipping his head back as he whimpers, and I cry out.

Crawling over to him, I touch his face, then his chest.

“Help,” he pants, shocky and short. “Help me.”

Blood is pooling in his stomach, and my hands shake as they hover. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t— I don’t know how.”

His sweet brown eyes are desperately afraid, and my insides burn with the need to leave.

I don’t want to see this .

I don’t want to watch him die.

I look down the alley, both ways down the street, but they’re empty. There’s no last-minute rescue. No one risking themselves for anyone else.

No one is coming to help.

Not knowing what else to do, I peel my cardigan off my trembling shoulders and press it to his stomach, but his immediate, blood-curdling scream makes me fall back.

“Shh.” I lift my hands frantically, keeping my voice to a tearful hush. “Shh, please. Don’t shout. I can’t...”

The blood soaks my cardigan in moments.

I stumble to my feet, and tears leak from his eyes. Silently, he shakes his head at me.

“I don’t know what to do!” I shout, my hands tangling in my hair, then I flinch again, looking down the empty street.

Waiting for another pack to appear.

I can’t do this.

I’m not a doctor—not a nurse or a medic or anyone useful. I would give anything right now to be someone like that, to have someone like that, but I don’t. I only have me. I’m only a librarian. I don’t know how to do anything. I’m not skilled, or brave, or smart. I’m only a librarian.

Oh God.

I should leave. I want to leave. Simon’s warnings and cautions and the too-prolific crimson pools on the pavement all tell me I should.

But I don’t... and it’s for all the wrong, worst, most pathetic reasons. It’s not because I’m brave, or good .

Self-hatred crawls up my throat.

I’m just not ready to be alone yet.

I drop my backpack into the alley, and I kneel back down beside him, my knees soaking in his blood.

“Please don’t leave me,” Simon whispers, clutching at my shirt. He sounds so much younger as he begs. As he cries into the filthy alley with too much knowledge in his eyes. “I don’t want to die.”

“I know.” I pull in my wavering bottom lip. “I know. I’m sorry .”

He starts to shake, and I take his hand, pressing the other one to his pallid cheek.

Something clatters in the alley, but even as my instincts warn me away, I don’t look up.

I’m not leaving him alone.

Not now.

“I wish I had read more books,” I tell him throatily, looking up at the sky. It’s dawning from midnight black into a deep indigo. “I wish I knew more. I wish...”

Simon chokes, and tears fall over my cheeks as I tilt his head to the side, stroking his hair. His breathing is so hoarse.

“You made me feel special today. Seen. I hope... I hope you know. .. how much that meant,” I continue, then cut off on a jerky, indrawn breath.

For a little while, I wasn’t so alone.

For a little while, I played pretend.

His stomach is shuddering, his skin clammy, but I try to ignore it. I’ve never seen someone die before, but I know that’s what’s happening. He’s shutting down, bit by bit.

He isn’t a hero or a happy ever after.

He isn’t a savior with depthless knowledge.

He’s just a boy who went to work today and will never go home.

“Don’t stop...” he murmurs, and his eyes are terrified on mine. “I’m so scared. Please don’t go. I can’t do this part... Can’t do it alone.”

I shake my head. “I’m not going. I promise.”

His eyes squeeze shut, and he rolls his head against the pavement. “ Why ?”

It’s okay, you know? It’s really okay to choose yourself.

A sob escapes me before I can snatch it back in, and I squeeze his hand. Hard. Just like he squeezed mine before we left the library.

“I don’t want to live in a world where people don’t take risks for others,” I tell him.

At that, he starts to sob quietly, shame so raw on his face that I have to look away from it.

How many people?

How many people could we have kept safe tonight?

His blood pools warmly between us, and his skin grows cooler in my hand.

“Eden . . . Eden . . .”

He begins to repeat my name, over and over, his pretty brown eyes unfocusing, and I trace my thumb over his cheek, whispering nonsense to him. Sweet, soft things. Compliments and comforts that mean less than nothing now.

When he starts growing more agitated, groaning in pain, his body jerking in harsh, uncontrolled movements, I sit up over him.

Tears running down my face, I take my necklace from around my neck. The heavy cross falls into my hands and I press it against his chest.

His eyes lock on my face, bulging and bleak.

“I still don’t think it does anything. I don’t believe in lucky charms. I don’t think stones can be clarifying or grounding, or any of what you said.” He cries out, agonized and low, and I swallow before I continue. “I don’t believe in it. And that’s the first rule of magic, right?” I sob. “You have to believe in it?”

His hands wrap around mine as his body jolts and shudders. It’s not pretty, or peaceful, or any of the things I wanted for him. I’m not sure he can even hear me right now.

But I stay anyway.

“I don’t believe in magic, Simon, but you do. And maybe I’m wrong. So, you take it. Take it just in case. Maybe jasper and Lola’s dismembered foot will heal you after all, and we can still go to the woods together like we thought?” I bite my lip, then add, “Neither one of us has to be alone, okay? I’m here.”

His breathing takes on a darker, hoarser tone, and his jerking begins to slow.

Over and over, I stroke his face. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m not leaving you.”

Until finally, his breathing stops.

I stare at his face for a long, teary moment, waiting for the next inhale that never comes.

I choke on a cry, slumping back. My shoulders shake as the tension drains out of me, and all the sadness and the uselessness of it all seeps in.

He was just a boy.

He didn’t know anything—he didn’t know what to do, or where to go, and his instincts weren’t better than mine. He did his best... but he was just a boy. A sweet boy who I trusted more than I should have.

More than myself.

I look down at Simon, at his dead, limp body and the hand that’s still wrapped around mine. I pry mine away and, with a sad sniff, I close his palm over my gran’s jasper cross, and move it over his chest.

I slide his empty eyes shut.

The sky is dawning now, breaking through patches of thick cloud, and I stand. I pick up my backpack and put it on. I loot Simon’s pockets for an extra lighter. I take his water and the maps of the forest, and whatever else looks useful and small enough to carry.

I leave Lola’s foot.

I’m not so sure that’s the kind of luck I need on my side.

Besides, this way, maybe they can continue their adventures in their afterlife.

With a deep pang in my chest, I lift my glasses from around my neck and slide them back on.

And I walk back to the library.

A numb, distant part of me urges me to run, but another part, one newer, and stronger, and seasoned over the longest night of my life—that part tells me to go slow. To preserve my energy until I need it. It reminds me that I have days and weeks and months and maybe even years of this kind of fear ahead of me.

I need to be smart. I need to be special, and strong, and to learn new skills.

I can’t afford to be useless anymore.

Turning the corner, I step over another body, but I don’t look down.

Simon didn’t have to die tonight. If he’d listened to me, he wouldn’t have.

If I’d trusted myself better, he wouldn’t have.

He may have been a boy, and maybe I’m just a girl... but I knew better than him. About the maps and the alley, at the very least.

Maybe about all of it.

I make it to the front of the library with no gunshots. No packs hunting me. The early morning sunshine makes a mockery of the carnage in the streets. The unhinged doors and shattered glass by several stores, the blood and the bodies collapsed in undignified, final poses.

No one moves.

It’s a quiet, peaceful morning.

This time, when I pull out my keys, I get the right one on the first try, and I step inside. It’s still dim without the flashlight, but I know this place better than I know my own home. I pass through the aisles, by the wooden shelves and precious books that have been my whole world.

I’m not a doctor.

I’m not a soldier, or an outdoorsman, my dad never took me hunting as a child.

But I pluck books off the shelves. Survival craft. Herbology. Basic first aid. Advanced first aid. A beginner’s guide to hunting. There’s even one here: How to Survive a Nuclear Apocalypse .

They’re heavy in my arms, and I stuff them into a tote—the only bags we have here, and possibly the worst option for convenient transportation—before I set my shoulders and once again step foot outside.

These books are my parents.

My friends.

My only helpers.

If it’s the end of all things, then at least I’ll end it with a good book.

And with that, I make my way to the woods.

It’s a two-day journey, but it takes three more than that since I avoid all major roads and thoroughfares. I won’t be caught in another mob. Instead, I hike over fields and trek down back streets until the soles of my flimsy boots wear to slivers. I hide from cars and curl my body behind trees when I see a curious face. I push my soft, unaccustomed body to its limits. Nightmares shock me out of my sleep every night. I wake with tears running down my face and sweat soaking my clothes, but I train myself not to cry out... because I don’t want to be caught.

It’s ... hard. It’s impossible, knowing I don’t have a safe place to go.

I just know I have to go somewhere.

Somewhere deep. Somewhere alone. Somewhere far, far away from all the people who will get me killed.

I’m trusting myself now.

I’m listening to my instincts.

In the middle of the day, when the fleeing swarms are at their busiest, I find safe nooks to read my books. Slowly, I learn the difference between wild carrots and water hemlock, and how many types of moss can supplement a diet in the wilderness.

The nights turn bitter and cold, but I scavenge a sleeping bag and tough those out too.

But my newfound scraps of bravery falter when I see them .

The drones streaking the sky make me fear like I haven’t since that first night. Grey and large and lightning fast, I walk past the cratered aftermaths and the corpse sprays they leave in their wake, and I... wish.

I wish things were different.

That there was an army rolling in who would save the day. That if I went to a FEMA shelter, like the one in Landsdowne or maybe Howards, I might find real people who would help. I wish that we had a leader who stood for the right things. Who tried. Someone who would bring our world together, instead of splitting it apart.

I wish that Simon were alive and here with me like he was meant to be.

I wish that someone were here, someone I could trust—truly trust —to never leave me behind.

Someone who would hold my hand if I lay dying.

But I don’t let myself wish for too long. I’m learning to better guard against hope.

On the third day, I find a mostly untouched hardware store. Inside, there’s a battery-powered radio, and I pick it up with tentative reluctance.

On the third night, I listen to it by the light of the first fire I managed to build for myself.

“. . . Jim Creek Naval Radio Station. VLF Transmitter Cutler . Houston. Atlanta. Los Angeles . . .”

The names go on and on... and this is why it’s better not to wish.

I might not have a team, or a herd. I don’t have a lover or friends.

But it’s better that way.

Lovers leave. Friends die. And I can let the blood on my clothes be a reminder of how fear takes the herd.

How the bad in them will almost always win out.

How they bring out the worst in me as well.

I’m done with all of them. I’m through living my life for people who never truly cared about me to begin with.

On the final day, when I reach the brink of the forest and stop to rest my aching legs, I play the only working local channel I could find... and I cry as I listen to the aged, droning voice.

“ See that you are not troubled; for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.”

Drones slice the sky overhead. Death on swift wings.

Huddled between the roots of a sprawling tree, I watch with a horror that borders on awe.

“For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences, and earthquakes in various places.”

When the drones leave, the silence swamps me again. I swallow hard as I clutch my radio more tightly.

The end of all things is quieter than I expected.

I think.. . I think it’s going to be quiet for a very long time now.

“All these are the beginning of sorrows.”

Finally, I turn the radio off and stand, looking back at the dying sun on the horizon.

And with the silence eating at my bones, I stride into the darkness of the woods.

Alone.