This is still in a very early phase, be warned! Also, how do my stories always end up messed up and dark?
Look at me now, deep underground, hungry, thirsty, not a single bit of humanity left, all sacrificed for survival.
I used to ask myself how it came so far, to the point where children running around with guns are a common sight. Now, I don’t even have the time for it.
Always running away, once upon a time hoping for a happy end. But holding onto hope is something from a movie, a cliché book that I will never be able to read. Emotions were banned, not because we had to, not because anyone forced us to, but because you die otherwise, emotionally.
You die when you have to leave your family behind.
You die when you see someone get ripped open.
You die when you have to shoot a friend.
But the worst part is when someone you once upon a time loved comes back, and tries to kill you. Nothing is worse than that.
But we survived.
We reached the Promised Land.
But the Promised Land got torn apart.
Even then, we continued. Not by hope, not love, not friendship, but by fear. Fear for what we have left behind us. It forces us to continue.
But we fear ourselves more than any monster. Fearing who we are now, who we became, fearing the deeds we have done, but fearing most that we don’t get eaten by guilt. Fearing the fact that shooting someone has become a normal thing. Fearing the fact that we can still sleep at night.
As I lie here, I think back to the horrible survival-camps my parents sent me to. Nothing we’ve learned there, nothing I’ve ever learned, could prepare me for what would happen.
Nothing at all.