It's Only the Rain

I could never catch them sleeping, unless they slept with their glassy eyes open, still as corpses in the loft Jen and Amy wouldn’t touch. Likewise, I never saw them emerge in the daylight, or even seem interested when the sun slanted through the windows of the loft early in the morning. They were a mystery to me, and in my rare, waking moments, I began to wonder what the cryptically silent girl had put in that vial. Had she saved my life, or was she ending it?

The days went by slowly, in a delirium. I couldn’t remember when was dark and when was light, except in very general terms, as I struggled to learn the lesson that light harmed my eyes. Probably they were damaged from radiation exposure, like Taylor’s one eye, which he rested in the lighter hours. In my world, there was only the throbbing ceiling and the pulsing walls that beat in time with my own agony. There was only sweat and shaking and bottles of water Taylor brought– always delivered by moonlight. There was only Daphne and Alastair, who slept through the day, open-eyed, and stared through the night, frail old John and Eric who said nothing, Jen and Amy, who were afraid, me, and Taylor.

Mama got sick, like me. We both had the fever, and I had wet blood permanently on my lips and dribbling down my chin from where I was too weak to cough neatly. I always awoke in a pool of crimson, no matter how or when I slept. When I slept, I had no dreams. The only image of I had to stand for the night was two sets of eyes open, one pale and cold as ice, one deep and dark as the pits of Hell.

And then one day, my world ended.