Chapter Text
'This isn't how it was supposed to go.'
You're supposed to be alone with your thoughts and nothing else. It was fine with the occasional yearly check-up from your neighbour; he was the only one who cared about you in the neighbourhood, probably ever since your father died. It's not worth reminiscing now; he's dead. His daughter came running to you after his house burned down. She was sobbing, "My daddy!" You couldn't handle it. You couldn't handle a child talking about their father the entire time of an apocalypse. You're not fit to take care of that; it's not your fault. The rest of that day, you shut yourself in your room and tried not to cry. You're not supposed to do that anymore.
The days go on as usual, checking on the people you've let into your home, making sure they didn't crawl up out the ground to make a meal out of you. You don't like to admit it, but your heart is softer than people assume. Every time you take a life, even if they're no longer human, it takes a toll on you. To make up for that, you like to chat with your temporary housemates as well, even if you're horrible at it.
"My good man... We're all going to die someday. That's the unavoidable truth. What do you think happens to us after we die..?" Asks the man who sits in the hall, the first person you let in your home... besides your neighbour.
"I don't know - maybe we float around in space.." You say with an awkward smile upon your face, expecting to cheer him up with your obviously humorous answer.
"An empty void of darkness.. Ending up there would be the same as disappearing. I... I want to be alone.."
Your smile falters, and you do as he says; you leave the hall without looking back. 'You really need to get better at reading the room.'
Once you've finished going around your house and you're sure you're in the clear, you head to bed. You don't want to let anyone else in, but it would be for the best, gathering expendables for FEMA. You've already grown sort of 'attached' to the people in your house right now. You don't want to make FEMA upset, but you know it would only escalate things if you were to retaliate; they could start taking more people, and possibly by force. It's upsetting you just thinking about it; it's not even about the actual situation. God, it's so stupid. You need to get over it.
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You wake up and realize you didn't even bother to take off your shirt, 'damn it'. You always sweat like hell while sleeping; it's not any better now that you have to sleep during the day.
Slinging your father's old shotgun around your shoulder and start by peering out your windows, checking for anything suspicious. As much as it's traumatizing living through an apocalypse, it's quite beautiful at night. It's calm yet loud at the same time. The tall grass blows in the humid wind, the soil looks like it's flowing like water, and the stars are brighter than ever - whether that be because it's the end of the world or because the world is conserving its energy at night. Or, at least you assume the rest of the world is like this.
Once you're finished checking your windows, you answer your door. Peering through the peephole. It's like dating all over again, opening up based on the minimal information the person gives you and then finding out what they're really like when they're already in your home, using up all your resources.
You deny a couple of people, finding them a bit too odd for your liking. You allow in a burned firefighter who gives you a FEMA notice, you feel sympathy for him, you know he won't make it much longer. You wait in the chair by the door for a bit longer, waiting to see if there's a final knock of the night before going back to sleep. Eventually, there's a knock. You get up and peek through the peephole, you're not sure what to make out of what you see.
A man in his mid-thirties, his face is harsh, but there's a sense of softness in there. He grips at his neck tightly, like as if you were to hold someone's hand while getting a shot. Besides all of those factors, there's one thing that stands out the most: the stitches on his mouth, keeping his mouth shut. Most likely causing him the pain that is shown in his demeanour. You can't see very clearly, but it looks almost like his cheeks are tear-stained.
"mmmph. mmmmmph!!"
"What?" you question, even though he clearly can't answer.
His eyebrows arch in distress, he mumbles again, but you can't make sense of what he's trying to say.
"Did someone sew your mouth shut?"
He seems more distressed, waving his arms while he mumbles.
You let him in, you feel pity for him. You know you can't keep doing this, but you want to help him. 'No one tried to help you, not until it was too late.'
You lead him towards the storage closet, everything you've never used is in here. Although you know where everything is, of course. You pull out your grandmother's sewing kit, in it, a pair of small stork embroidery scissors she had gotten as a souvenir in Germany. 'You hate that you know so much about your family'. You turn your attention back to him. You glance at the scissors, then at him.
"Do you want me to do it or you..?"
He stares at you for a moment, as if he hadn't heard a single word you said. He looks at you and then the scissors. This is all very strange. He slowly reaches out and carefully takes the scissors. He stares at the scissors for a moment, almost uncomfortably. You could guess why, he's probably had those stitches in for a while, taking them out would hurt like hell. You don't rush him, though. You look back into the sewing kit and grab a pocket mirror, propping it up on one of the shelves, levelling it with his head.
The man glances back at you, you're intently staring at him. 'You notice your stare and try to relax', trying to ease the pressure. The man lets out a heavy sigh through his nose and shakily lifts the scissors. He opens them and lets the first stitch snip. He winces, but he doesn't stop. He continues cutting the string before eventually ripping it out. 'You cringe at how painful that seems'; you can hear him groan in pain as he does it.
He opens his mouth almost immediately to try and speak to you, but his voice is hoarse, and you can barely make out what he's saying.
"Stop! stop! You'll only hurt yourself. Let me get you some water."
You walk out of the storage closet to the kitchen. You grab a tall glass out of your cabinet and run it under the tap, letting it fill up with the lukewarm water we have to live off of. You turn around to go back to the storage closet, but he had followed you. You're surprised he's this trusting, but you hand him the glass and lead him back to the storage closet. You softly push him inside.
"Uhh.. stay in here, please don't touch anything.." You say, everyone else seemed to understand that rule from the start, but this guy seems strange. Maybe it was a bad idea letting him in. It's like he can't hear you or something. Maybe he's deaf? You'll check for signs in the morning..
You shut the door behind you and take a few steps away. After you know he won't open the door and leave the room, you head back to bed. You lie on your bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, hoping you won't smell that familiar stench of death once again in the morning.