Unknown
I don't know what day it is or where I am. I have the taste of dust in my mouth and also blood from where something happened, but I don't know what. My name is Abigail. I have no parents left, no friends, no siblings, no...anything.
My mind is wandering now, and I might as well write out what I am thinking about, because I probably won't remember it later.
I am thinking of how much I used to hate my family. I don't now. I loved them then, I suppose, just not as much as I do now. It's lonely here, in this desolate city, wiped clean by asteroids, germ warfare, and gang wars. We are few, we are scarce, and there are many deaths. I don't know what to do any more. I wonder what my dad would do. He was a scientist, a brilliant one who tried to prevent the rapid forest fires and disease that followed after the asteroid strike. My dad would tell me to make a water purifier, and search for protected shelter. Something that would protect me from the polluted, acidic rain, the oppressive heat, and roving bands of gangsters.
I swallow hard and roll over in the grit, head reeling as I slip off into the darkness again.
I still don't know what day it is. It's dark, but it's not because it's night. It's going to storm. My head is foggy and my vision blurry. My skin is cracked and bleeding, my hair is a tangled mess and my mouth is dried out and my lips cracked and swollen. My hip aches from how I was sleeping on it, and my right knee won't work properly since the infected cut a few days ago.
The shelter I am in should last through the storm--it is a jungle gym of steel beams and twisted debris, sand piled up on all sides. There is a small tunnel through it all, and someone had to have lived here before me. I am scared that whoever it is will come back, but I think they're dead.
I blink in the darkness, before standing shakily to my feet. I really have to use the bathroom but I don't want to risk the storm or the attention of gangs. I don't have a choice, though.
I pull in a deep breath and make my way over to the tunnel and crawl through. Once I reach the outside, I am glad I came. It's dark and windy but the sun is like a flaming orb on the horizon. The black crows that fly, silhouetted against it almost make me laugh, because it looks like an uglier version of a picture that used to hang on our living room wall.
After relieving myself, I hurry back inside as the winds pick up and the sand flies everywhere. I get some in my eye but I ignore the stinging because I can hear shouts and I know someone--gangs or nor--is coming to find shelter. My heart beats faster at the possibility that they know I'm here.
The wind picks up, carrying their shouts away from me as I curl up in a tight bunch against the raging winds. I feel myself drifting away even though I struggle to stay awake. It's no good. I sigh inwardly, resigning myself to the fact that not only am I sick, but I have caught the Virus.
Death by gangs seems appealing over this.
I have the Virus, I think to myself in fear. I drift away.