Two soft feet hit the pavement. A breeze rustles bright golden hair. Wide doe-like dark brown eyes search the skies through long eyelashes. A large door stands behind her. She takes a small step forward and jumps back, for the dark pavement has had sun shining on it all day, and the child doesn’t recognize the sun can burn her tiny feet.

The date is July 16th, 2031. The outbreak had started years before Rosalie had even been born. She’d lost a brother she’d never known to it, before the State of Emergency had even been declared.

Her parents don’t talk about him a lot. They don’t talk a lot about anything.

Today, July 16th, is the first time Rosalie has left the suburban white condo, though it’s not so white anymore. Years of wear and tear with no maintenance have left it more a dusty grey colour.

Vaccinations for every member of the household had been mailed a month ago. She didn’t much like the needle, but she didn’t complain. It hurt, but it didn’t hurt that much. She didn’t understand why her parents had cried when they’d given themselves the vaccines.

Now, they’d waited the recommended period of time, even a little longer, her parents had decided it was time. They stand behind her now, in the doorway. Their masks are on, gloves too, and they seem hesitant.

Rosalie remembers the dainty slippers in her hand. They’re blue, race cars on them. They’re too small for her. She puts them on anyway. Then, she takes a step again, into the sunshine.

She feels its warmth on her rosy pale cheeks. It blinds her when she looks up. She doesn’t care. Her face breaks out into a smile. She looks to the plot of dirt she’s been told was a garden. It was her mother's happy place. Now it is dead and desolate, save for one small weed. It’s green and has three soft-looking leaves. It clings to the sidewalk for support. She crouches and touches one of the leaves. It feels like it should. Soft. Fragile.

Alive.

She looks up to realize that other people who live in the cul-de-sac are on their lawns as well, taking in a world they’ve been deprived of for eleven years. There’s silence except for the leaves rustling.

“It’s over.” Says the elderly man who lives next to Rosalie. He’d lost his wife and daughter to the virus. “It’s finally over.” His voice breaks. The neighbors across from them start clapping. Yelling and whooping. Roslie backs away, scared by what appears to her to be an aggressive gesture. Soon, as everyone joins in, she realizes it’s a good thing. So, underneath the sunshine and the blue sky and clouds, with a backdrop of muted houses, lawns devoid of life, her brother’s shoes and her parents tears, she puts her tiny fragile hands together. Slowly at first, and then faster, she claps. The neighborhood follows suit, and soon the echoes of their claps and cheers are all anyone can hear.

The walkman blasts old rock through her ears, Ozzy Osbourne in particular. She feels it pound in her skull. She’s strolling down the sidewalk of main street, tapping her feet to the beat and imagining her left foot as a snare drum and her right as a bass drum. She plays her air guitar, and wonders of the feeling of stage lights on her face. The sweat that would drip into her cerulean eyes, but she wouldn’t care because the adrenaline the audience would pump into her would make her immune to such trivial matters.

Eyes fall to her, understandably so. She brings a whole new meaning to marching to the beat of your own drum. The song she had previously been listening to ends, and that moment of silence between that song and the next kills Sloane. The way she’s brought out of her own imagination long enough to feel the freezing wind on her bare arms, taste the food she can’t afford on her tongue. Goosebumps ripple through her body, and she turns up her music. She loves the pure animosity in rock music, but also how it’s contained enough to keep a steady beat.

She takes a right on Westboro street. She does a spin to the drop in the music, and suddenly collides with a solid object. She takes out an earbud to look up and is confronted with the face of a polished man. His hair is close cropped and clean cut. His suit navy blue and wrinkle free. The ends of his tie are so even it looks unnatural. Her eyes meet his, and they’re a cool ice blue. They seem to freeze her on impact. He’s a good couple inches taller than her, which is surprising as Sloane is tall for a woman. She looks down to discover he’s dropped his briefcase, as well as his phone and wallet. A couple hundred dollar bills spill out of the wallet. The thought crosses her mind that she could take the money and run, buy herself warm food for the first time in God knows how long. She dismisses it immediately and kneels to help him gather his belongings. He picks up the briefcase and his phone. She grabs his wallet and the bills. She stands to look at him and holds them out. He gives her a stern look, his lips curling into a frown, and snatches the money from her hands. He pockets it and gives a judgemental sigh before pridefully jaunting away from her.

She shrugs off the encounter. Sloane’s used to it. In fact the man had reminded her of her father, a refined man with little gratitude. She makes a left on Knox street, and as she walks the houses get larger, the trees more grand and ornate, the sun seems to shine a little brighter and the sidewalks seem a little cleaner. She continues till she gets to the end of Knox street, and she pauses in front of the most grandiose house on the street. She sits on the curb, still tapping her foot to the beat. She rolls up her brown t-shirt with small holes throughout to reveal an expensive belt. It’s worth more than the rest of her possessions combined, and it’s the last object she owns of her fathers. Her fingers feel to the left of the belt, where hundreds of tiny notches are scattered. She takes a pocket knife out from her pocket, and scrapes it along the belt to add one more.

“Last one, Sloane. You have a home now. It’s going to get better from here,” She says to herself quietly, but dignified, with confidence, “it has to.” She lets the chilling air fill her lungs again and turns around to face the house. She meanders up to the mahogany door, and slams the golden knocker against it three times. Seconds later, the wooden door cracks open.

“Sloane?” She hears a familiar voice ask. She didn’t think the voice would spark emotion in her, but her voice almost cracks as she replies;

“Paige?” She questions. The door fully swings open and her sister envelops her in a hug.

“Oh my goodness Sloane! You’re alive! A-a-and you’re here! You’re really here! How’s my baby sister?” Paige is evidently excited to see her sister, a reaction Sloane was not expecting.

“I’m good. How are you?” Mutters Sloane as well as she can through the smothering hug she’s caught in.

“Better now! Well, come in. It’s freezing!” Sloane enters the house, and immediately feels out of the place. The furniture is lavish, and the ceilings at least twice her height. Sloane wonders how many people could lay down on the floor in just the foyer, and thinks back to all the cramped shelters or when she didn’t feel like the shelter, the freezing, soggy, or unsafe spots she’d sleep in. She remembers the second week she was out, thirteen notches in her belt, she had attempted to sleep at the threshold of a forest, and she’d been chased by coyotes until she’d jumped in a river and they’d scampered.

Giving her some solace is the familiarity of her sister Paige. Paige’s tawny hair is pinned back, which brings the attention to her emerald green eyes and slim figure. Paige is dressed in a pretty light yellow dress, clearly something that cost a pretty penny. She wears nude heels to accentuate her height and long legs. Paige had always been beautiful, that youthful innocent type of beauty.

“Hun, you look starved! Maybe we can have a snack and then maybe a shower?” She’s trying to be gentle but Paige always has a slightly condescending tone of voice. Sloane couldn’t care less though, for whatever her ears hear is overpowered by the sound of her stomach rumbling. After Paige had prepared a charcuterie board and poured two glasses of extravagant Pinot Noir, they sat down at a dining table easily with enough room for twelve guests. Paige places Sloane’s wine down and then a thought hits her.

“Shoot! You’re still seventeen. No alcohol for you.” She pours all of the wine into one glass with a chuckle. Sloane isn’t too bothered by the not receiving wine, but more so the reminder of her age. She might physically be seventeen but mentally she’s a lot older. “So, what have you been up to for the past year? I mean, I’m grateful you’re here now but where have you been?”

Sloane could regale her with tales of travel across half the country by way of train and hitch-hiking, with every trial and tribulation, with all the nights of frigid sleeplessness, but instead she opts to lie.

“Oh, you know, just been wherever the wind takes me. It’s been very freeing.” Says Sloane nonchalantly. She can tell her sister doesn’t believe her.

“Okay. Saint Gregory’s called us like a thousand times. It was crazy.” She says, the word ‘crazy’ in her signature sing-songy voice. Sloane grins, she hasn’t heard that name for quite some time. Saint Gregory’s prides itself on being the most expensive catholic boarding school on the east coast. They continue to eat until the food is gone, most of it having been consumed by Sloane.

“Alrighty then, let’s get you in the shower! Sorry Slo, but you’re kinda smelly.” Said Paige, a peppy expression. ‘Slo’ was Sloane’s nickname a long time ago, and she hadn’t heard it in a while.

“You talk exactly like mom did.” Says Sloane. It’s the first thing to dampen Paige’s relentless happiness since Sloane had arrived.

“I am nothing like mom.” Paige says seriously.

“Jeez, sorry. Just saying.” Sloane exclaims apologetically. After all these years, Sloane still loved her mother. Her mother was the only person she ever connected with on a deep level, and one day her mom had just up and left. Paige never got over it, and to be honest Sloane didn’t know if she did either. Paige walks upstairs and they make small talk over the lavishness of Paige’s abode, until reaching the end of a hallway.

“So that doors the bathroom, and there are fresh towels in there. You can sleep in this room for now. Sorry, it’s not the biggest, but our nice guest room has all of Paul’s stuff in it right now.” Right at that moment, Sloane notices the sparkling white diamond on Paige’s finger.

“You’re getting married?!” She frantically asks.

“Oh yes! He’s perfect. Of course though, he has to sleep in a separate room until the wedding day. We bought this house together, and he gave ME the master bedroom until we’re married. Isn’t that so sweet?” Paige’s eyes twinkle as she speaks of him.

“That’s great. I’m really happy for you.” Says Sloane with a grin.

“And now you can come to the wedding!” She squeaks before enveloping Sloane in a second hug. “Oh sorry, you can shower now.” Paige flaunts down the hallway and Sloane steps into the bathroom. She disrobes and steps in the shower. The steaming water feels heavenly against her emaciated frame. She’s been cold for so long. She uncaps the shampoo and just holds it under her nose for a minute, savouring the sweet scent of citrus and sea breeze.

When she steps out of the shower, the windows and mirrors are too fogged up to see into. She feels fresh and wraps herself in the soft towel before walking across the hallway into her room. She’s taken aback by the grandness, the king size bed with silk sheets, a desk with a full vanity, more space than some people’s entire houses. She sits on the bed in her towel, and runs her hands across the comforter and sheets, feeling their texture against her hardened calloused fingertips. A tear rolls down her face. For the first time in a long time, Sloane hears nothing but silence. She allows herself to feel. The struggle of the past twelve months, the times she almost didn’t make it. The times she snuck onto trains because she didn’t have the money to pay for them and nearly got killed. Her last exchange with her dad. Soon one tear turns into many. She shrugs off the towel and pulls on the simple outfit her sister had laid out for her. Her hair is still wet as she allows herself to curl up on the bed. The sweet abyss of sleep takes her almost immediately.

The next time her eyelids flutter awake, it’s almost ten at night. She walks downstairs and finds Paige cleaning up what looked to be a delicious meal.

“Hey sleepyhead! You missed dinner, but I figured you needed sleep.” Says Paige, scrubbing a plate.

“Yeah…” Sloane’s voice trails off and she comes to a realization; “Paige, I’m really grateful for all this. Thank-you so much. I didn’t know whether to call or not cause I didn’t know if you’d take me in, but I just… thanks. I love you.” Her voice waivers.

“Slo, anytime. I love you too. I’m so excited you’ve decided to rejoin the family.” Says Paige with a soft smile.

“Oh! You have to meet Paul. Paul, Honey! Would you come meet Slo?” Together they turn their heads to the kitchen archway, and in walks a man. His eyes don’t flash with recognition until ten seconds after hers, but it feels like an eternity. Paul is the businessman Sloane encountered earlier in the day. There’s a long pause as they stare at each other. Paige seems momentarily confused, and opens her mouth to say something and is interrupted by Paul. He outstretches one hand, the rolex on his wrist sparkling as strikingly as the ice in his eyes.

“Sloane, how good to finally meet you.” He says with a dashing smile. Sloane is frozen in place. She cannot bring her hand to meet his.

“Slo, I know you’ve been out on the streets for a while but you haven’t forgotten your manners, have you?” Questions Paige, clearly weirded out by the encounter. She reluctantly sticks her out and shakes his. The dashing grin doesn’t falter. Suddenly, headlights hit the glistening stained glass window as a car pulls into the driveway.

“Who’s here?” Asks Sloane skeptically.

“Oh, you’ll be so excited. I wanted to make all of this easier for you so I called dad!” Says Paige, clearly expecting praise for her actions.

“You did what? Paige, he’s gonna drag me back to Saint Gregory’s!” Sloane frantically yells. She sprints up the stairs, momentarily getting lost in the labyrinth of hallways before finding the way to her room. She grabs the walkman and her belt and tumbles out of the room and down the stairs.

“Sloane! I thought this was what you wanted! I thought you were ready to go back! Make your amends and stuff!” Paige screams after her, still confused.

“You idiot! I trusted you.” Sloane says, unable to hide the twinge of pain in her voice. Then the door swings open, the cold air hitting her like a kick to the stomach. A man steps in. Hair black as night, eyes somehow even darker. Broad shouldered and quite tall. She hadn’t seen her father in a year, and now he stood ahead of her.

“Sloane, I’m so glad you’ve decided to come back. Once you repent for your sins, we can be a family again.” He says stoically. Nothing but his mouth moves as he talks, his eyes laser focused on Sloane.

“I’m not going back. I’m not going back. I’m not.” She starts to hyperventilate as the reality of the situation hits her. Her father is flanked by two men in all white clothing. They’re both considerably stronger than her. They start to move closer to her, slowly, as if she’s a wounded wild animal. She feels like one. The reach out for her arms. Finally, she snaps out of her panic and makes a dash for the door. One of them catches her wrist. She spins around and bites his hand as hard as she can. The wind hits her face, chilling her. She keeps running, hearing their shouts after her. She runs until her lungs feel like sandpaper is being scraped against them. Then she walks. She keeps walking. Finally, she reaches an outlook over a train track. She sits down, hanging her arms over the railing. The sun slowly begins to embrace the sky, its first rays a paintbrush on a black canvas. She plugs her walkman in, and begins to listen to music.

She wonders how she got there. She remembers the men surrounding her table, the projector whirring behind her, showing her images of handsome men and pretty women. The electrodes that shocked her when she gave improper responses to the women. She knew the moment she realized she was gay she knew she’d never have peace with herself or her family. She turns her deep blue eyes to the sun, and takes out her pocket knife once more. To her left a train is rapidly approaching. She etches one more notch into the belt. The train is now a mere couple hundred feet from her. Lord, forgive me. She silently prays as she climbs over the railing. The train is so close it starts to blow her hair behind her shoulders. I’m sorry. She thinks. With that, she jumps.