Four hundred years ago, the world became tainted. And no, not in the usual sense. We were way beyond lying, thievery, and plain murder. I mean the war-like kind of tainting. Where holes littered the ground, and bodies were stacked at every corner in a desperate attempt to stop the spread of disease. The curbs of the streets in Stephens City, Virginia, were stained a rusty-red hue from all the blood draining into the sewers. Smoke rose to great heights, billowing towards the heavens above as if seeking pity from the Creator.

I adjusted the gas mask on my face with a gloved hand, my breathing shallow as I picked my way along Macedonia Church Road. Where I stood, I could see the remnants of a green home. Most of the roof was gone now, but the porch remained intact. Across from it was a mound of bricks. I knew they were former houses, blown to smithereens by bombers during the Fourth World War.

The town had turned into a city over the span of a few years, most of the new residents fleeing from Leesburg or DC. It became one of the most populated areas in Virginia, and being only a couple hours from major sites, was a hot spot for trouble. It wasn't like that anymore.

Tucking my hands in my pockets, I turned right, walking towards Tasker. I couldn't tell you how long I had been traveling on these roads. Not just in Stephens City, but all along the east coast. I would pick up things during my wanderings. Money meant nothing, so it was used as fire-kindling. Books were relics, but I had a couple in my bag. Passers-by were the rarest of all, though. I'd only seen a dozen or so people since I started walking two years ago.

My trench coat dragged through decay as I meandered, kicking mud and gross substances I don't care to name from the bottoms of my shoes. I could see the heat waves rising from the tar road, making the neighborhood beyond hazy. The toxic air felt like black ichor against my bare ankles, singeing the stubble on my legs. Stepping onto Tasker Road, I looked back and forth before deciding to take a left, jogging past the skeletons of dozens of cars. There, I found an abandoned Walmart. So many boxes littered the parking lot, a sign that a group of scavengers had long since raided the place.

Ducking my head, I sprinted for the doors which had been pulled from their rails and were now propped up against the crumbling brick wall. A black hood pulled over my auburn hair, I looked around the wrecked building. The place was so big I wouldn't be surprised if I found someone inside. Padding through the center aisle, I glanced around. Like most other places, the store was trashed. Completely. A large crater sat towards the far left, what I assumed to be the aftermath of a grenade. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that someone had moved a bunch of bodies into the hole before laying cardboard over them. The reed diffusers someone had thrown on top didn't do much to mask the horrid smell coming from the heap. Not even the mask covering my face was able to.

Out of the corner of my vision, I saw fire. One single, lone flame burning brightly within the darkness. It flickered, but remained. Taking a shard of wood from a cattywampus shelf, I approached the burning wire hanging from the ceiling. The least I could do was burn the bodies to ash. If they couldn't have a proper burial, I could at least dispose of the bodies the best way I knew how.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came a voice from behind me. Whirling around, I held the wood piece up like a weapon, staring at the man. He leaned against one of the concrete supports, watching me steadily. "Those bodies are covered in gasoline. Someone rigged the building to explode; the gas wraps throughout the whole building. If you want to make it out of here alive, I suggest you don't even touch the fire."

I glared at him, but of course, he wouldn't know that. The gas mask completely covered my face, hiding my expression. Perhaps he could see my eyes, but not from far away. Stepping closer, he took the wood from me, tucking it into the pocket of his camo cargo pants. I didn't move my eyes from his face, assessing him. He was tall and lean. Not buff, but muscular enough. A mop of light brown hair sat atop his head, kind brown eyes peering closely at my mask. He couldn't be much older than me. Twenty-four or twenty-five if I had to guess.

"You do realize you don't actually need the mask, right?" he queried. "I checked the air toxicity in the building, and it seems fine for the most part."

I didn't move a muscle.

"Is there even a person under there?" he asked, frowning. "You're not some sort of freaky automaton, are you? Creator knows, those things ended the world fast."

"No, I'm not," I grunted, stepping around him.

"So she does have a voice!"

"I'm sorry for entering your space," I said, hugging my coat tighter around me.

"You could stay," he offered. "It gets lonely here, and the air's fresher than many surrounding areas."

"Thanks, but no thanks. Got things to do, places to be. Why are you even here in the first place?" I glanced at him over my shoulder as I made my way toward the exit.

"Uhm. . . Well, that's a long story and-"

"I've got no time for those," I said, jogging outside. He continued to follow.

"Hey, I didn't mean to get you running out of the store." He sounded upset. Pausing in the middle of the street, I turned to face him. "Look, I need to get to Canada. I've been traveling up from Florida for the past seven months."

"Why Canada, of all places?"

"My uncle is in Dryden, Ontario, Canada. I'm trying to get to him."

"How do you even know where he is? Communication is nearly impossible."

He held up a strange, rectangular contraption. It was thin, about half the width of my finger, but quite long. It was small enough to hold it with one hand, but still pretty large. He said, "This thing. It's a phone. They're pretty much beat, at this point. It's a 28 Pro, if I can recall the model. Weren't made to last, but my great-grandfather owned a few."

"Why are you sticking around here, then? You seem to have built yourself a. . . place." I motioned to the Walmart, eyes drawn towards the side where he'd created a blanket fort and whatnot. How I had not seen it before, I had no idea, but it was obvious he'd been there for a while.

"I've been working on some things," he said slowly, as if thinking about how much to tell me. "A fast mode of transport, if you will. Electricity isn't something we really have here anymore, so repairing a car would be pointless. No, I'm working on something much greater than that."

I grunted, not totally believing him. "What would you need me for? I'm headed south." I wasn't. I, myself, was headed north, but I didn't know that I wanted a stranger to tag along.

"It's just better to move in a group, however small it may be. I haven't been on the move for that long, and I have yet to run into anything dangerous, but this country has been decimated, and those who are still left are mostly ravenous. Turned foul by anger, fear, and loss. You never know what they will do when they see you."

"What about me makes me trustworthy?" I asked. I was genuinely curious, but I didn't want him to think I was being friendly. “I could have, and still could, attack you.”

"You could, but you haven’t. And the way you tried to burn those people. I know what you were doing. Putting their souls to rest."

"Maybe I was cooking them."

"You most certainly weren't."

"I don't even know your name," I argued, adjusting my mask once more.

"Liam."

I stared blankly at him. He was a little foreign. Literally, as he came from Florida, but figuratively as well. It wasn't often you came across someone, much less someone asking for your help. Most people moved about life bleakly, despairing over what befell the world.

"Norelle," I said quietly after a moment. I couldn't remember the last time I'd said my name. It felt strange on my lips. As if it weren't mine.

He looked mildly surprised. "That's a pretty name," he said seconds later. I shrugged in response. "So, Norelle. Will you help me?"

I mulled over it, tilting my head to the right as I looked him up and down. I'd been working alone for over five years. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized traveling through DC with someone trustworthy would be imperative if I was to get out without too much trouble. DC was a hot spot for lost people. So was New York. And Los Angeles, if you were to the west. He needed me for the exact reason I needed him, and he recognized that.

"Yes, Liam. I'll help you."

Oh, how you have grown

From that fragile boy.

From the boy that stood amongst the peonies,

And stared at the sky,

To one that stares danger in the eyes,

In courageous challenge.

You were not my first love,

You have not been the last.

But there will always be a piece

Of me

That beats

For you.

I smile and watch

As you spin on your heel and stride through the ruins

Of what was once

Me

And

You

Laying in a bed of roses, my mind swirls like the clouds in the sky

Oh, the patterns of summer caress my skin,

Cocooning me in the warm embrace of Summer's heat.

Sweet nectar brushes my lips, sealing a promise I know I won't keep.

Eyes drift from butterfly to butterfly, their wings fluttering like my lashes as I fall into oblivion.

Shadows hide the pain in my smile much like Willow's branches blocking Waterfall's mist.

All alone I rest here in my bed of roses.

Waiting for the day you fulfill Life's purpose and join me beside the willow.

Linking arms as we walk down the sidewalk,

Giggling at a cute couple passing by us.

Singing along to the radio as we drive down the interstate,

We're all off pitch, but smiling.

Yelling happy birthday as the candles are blown out

Talking until our lungs run out of air.

But at the same time,

Offering hugs when another is filled with despair,

Sharing words of comfort and lending support.

Cracking a joke to make them smile,

And forgiving them for their wrongdoings. 

Passing on notes,

Spending hours and hours studying together,

Whispering words of advice from one to another.

Planning weddings, and royal parties,

And embarrassing each other with ship names galore!

And at the end of the day,

we're sisters and brothers not in blood,

But in spirit.

And that's all I could ever ask for.

You look up at him through your lashes, lips parted slightly. He looms over you, the rising sun highlighting his golden skin and reflecting in his heavenly eyes. His hands wrap around your lower back, holding you close. This man, this beautiful creature before you, is everything. Your night and your day. Your joy and your sorrow. He smiles softly, leaning closer. His breath is minty in your nose and warm on your face. You stand on your toes, pressing impossibly close to him. Just before your lips meet, he turns away, looking out the window. You watch him watch the sun as it crests the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant pinks and golds. His long lashes flutter as he ponders. "This. This is what I want," he says quietly, turning to look at you once more. He leans closer to you again, staring deep into your eyes as he says, "To share every dawn with you."

I don't even feel like I'm a real thing.

Part of me wanders,

Lost,

Confused,

Around people.

I'm there but I'm not,

Playing hide-n-seek with myself.

Like a ghost.

I may touch things,

But my impression is brief.

Hidden until I'm not.

Terrifying once I'm discovered.

Hiding away,

That's what I do best.

Maybe that's what I'll stick to.

I'm so tired.

I think it's time for my soul to rest for a little while.

There’s a little house on a hill, out on the prairie. Tall, yellowing grass extends as far as the eye could see; a vast grassland stretching to the far corners of the Earth. The house is decently sized, two stories and fairly wide. A porched adorned with vines sagged at the front, little pink flowers blooming, twisting up the supports.

But standing on that porch, was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties. And in his arms, he held a baby. He stared straight at me, a smile donned on his face. He was handsome, that was for sure. There was a kind of glow about him, one that was ethereal. Like a little drop of Heaven on Earth. He glanced down at the babe, cooing softly. He swayed side to side, rocking the child to a peaceful sleep. Except for the soft rustle of the grass in the wind, no sound could be heard.

I watched as he pressed a soft kiss to the infant’s forehead. He said nothing when he turned towards me again, adjusting his child in his arms. Approaching him, I peered inside the house. taking in all the potted plants and stunning art.

It was perfect. At least, as close to perfect as it could get.

I was now close enough to him that I could touch him. Reaching out, I placed my hand on his cheek, cradling his head. He was beautiful, so utterly beautiful that it stole my breath away. I let my fingers fall away from his face, focusing on the child in his arms. The babe was so tiny, wrapped securely in a pale yellow blanket. I gently took the baby from him, lightly brushing it's nose with my pinky as I marveled at it. Somehow, I knew. Somehow I knew that it was mine. And I was in love.

Choking back tears, I swayed back and forth with my child, looking at the man on the porch. And I knew he was mine too. My one-and-only. My other half. My forever. He smiled sweetly, pressing a light kiss to my lips as we stood side by side on the steps. "I love you," I said, voice little more than a murmur.

"And I you," he told me right back, pressing his forehead to mine.

Everything was right in the world. No stress weighed me down, no anxiety held me back. My life revolved not only around me anymore, but rather the people I called family.

But alas, it's just a dream. One that I put down on paper and cry over. One that I wished was real, but isn't. It's just a piece of art. A piece of literature. And that's all it will ever be.

Am I just not good enough for you,

Mother?

Am I just not the perfect daughter you want me to be?

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that I just can't fit into the mold you created for me.

See,

The thing is,

I don't want to be your carbon copy.

Because even though I love you,

I resent you.

I really do.

And I hate that feeling,

You know?

That burning bitterness in my heart every time you say my name,

Thinking, 

"Here we go again"

Because every time you talk to me,

It's because I've done something wrong.

Because you find something about me you don't like. 

That's not up-to-par with your idea of perfection.

You have my crying in the shower,

You know.

Is this the kind of power you want?

The kind that hold me back against my will?

The controlling type?

I know you didn't grow up in a good home,

Mother.

But I'm so sick of dealing with your brat-ishness.

Those beauty standards like those of society. 

I'm sorry I'm not a twig,

That I have curves more than you think I should.

I'm sorry that I have the kind of friends you would never have.

I'm sorry that I don't bend to your will right away.

I'm sorry that I cry when I'm sad.

I'm sorry that I want to do my own thing.

I'm sorry that I want to leave;

To run away and never return.

I'm sorry that I'm so angry.

I'm sorry that I'm so anxious.

I'm sorry that my grades aren't perfect A's 100% of the time.

I'm sorry that I'm stressed.

Stop telling me to talk to you,

Mother.

Stop telling me to share with you every secret of mine, 

Every thought and feeling.

Because the days that were rough,

And I finally explained my opinions and emotions,

You make me feel invalid.

Snide remarks about my weight make me feel like a pig.

Makes me want to stop eating.

Comments on my black liner,

Make me feel ugly.

Snippets of conversations I hear about my way of dress,

Which let me say,

Is just your clothes worn differently,

Makes me feel like un-modest when I know that I am.

Just stop,

Mother.

If I want to cry in peace,

Let me.

Don't ask questions where they're not wanted.

Don't talk to people about how great I am and then tell me I'm disgusting.

Don't act like the perfect mother when all you do is yell at me and make me self-conscious. 

I'm sorry,

Mother.

For not hugging you when I needed to be alone.

I'm sorry I made you cry.

Stop treating me like a child,

Mother,

When you expect me to be an adult.

I hate it,

Mother.

I really do.

Do you notice that?

I don't say Mom anymore.

I just coldly say "Mother" because that's all the fight I have in me now.

I'm terribly sorry,

If I'm the problem.

But after discussion with my therapist,

My cousins,

My aunts and uncles,

My great-grandmother,

And my best friends (Which are more of a family to me than you)

They've all determined that you are,

Indeed,

A problem.

And I don't know how to tell you that.

For years,

Mother,

I've told you repeatedly that I don't like it here.

That I can't talk to you.

That you make me feel gross.

That you're so demanding and childish and negative.

Perhaps it's time 

To tell you.

That I'm breaking.

Because your grip on me is too tight.

You need to let me go.

(For anyone who struggles in a bad home situation, or even struggles relationship wise with one of their parental figures, I send my love and hopes and prayers. Know that you are not alone, and that there's always someone willing to listen. <3)

I'm cracking, forming

    f

        r

    a

  g

      m

    e

n    

      t

  s

Bits of porcelain skin smashing against the ground,

Frustrated,

A            

    N       

        G

            R    

                Y

More fragile than fine china, 

But not covered in delicate images,

No petals could cover the thorns ruining my mind,

D    R    I    P    P    I    N    G          B    L    O    O    D

The porcelain reflects the pain I feel,

Shattering against the earth,

In a million pieces because they don't care.

Unable to be glued back together,

L       S        N

    O        I        G           

The good part of me.

That warm tea.

Only cold and humiliating. 

Thrown away and never to be seen again.