Survivors

Chapter 2

0720 

August 17, 2011 

I slowly open my eyes, taking in the surroundings of the dark room I fell asleep in. I'm still here. It was a dream. My cheeks feel wet, and only seconds later do I realize that I actually did cry twice in one night. I glance over at my watch sitting on the floor, 3 feet to my left, exactly where I put it yesterday afternoon when we got in from our last run. Which ended with Steve dying in my arms. 7:20. Again. I woke up at 7:20, again. For the 6th week in a row, no matter when I go to sleep, I have woken up at 7:20. Why? I'm not sure. It could be that it was my mother's birthday, and I think about her all the time, or it could be something much more simple, but I may never know, nor do I really care enough to try to find out. 

I look at the rest of the group, all in a semi-orderly line to my left. Becca sleeps silently, her face blank, dry, and otherwise fine. She looks much younger when she sleeps. She looks young as it is, and honestly, anyone could think she was at most 16, even with everyone stressed about everything from when we'll eat next to "Dude, where's my car?" It makes me happy that the stress hasn't begun its process on her yet. I smile at her beautiful face, look over the rest of her, and start to feel hot, thinking about the night before. My hearts beats fast, and I wonder if it was the right thing to do, stopping where we were, and when I realize what I'm thinking, I glance at Jack, and all thoughts diminish. He reminds me of my older brother, Mace. From his strong chin, to his defined cheekbones. They have the same shade of ocean blue eyes, same grin when they sleep, and both act younger than me. The only differences of the two that come to mind are that Jack's eyes are slanted while Mace's are round; and Jack's alive, and Mace is more than likely dead. 

I shake away the thought, and look at Mark. I almost laugh when I look at him. He is a complete mess. His hair is more dysfunctional than our whole situation, bedhead to the tenth. Mouth open so far, I can see his dinner. One eye open, just like he always sleeps. This guy is a wreck. There are strands of gray in his coffee-colored hair. With him being only 22, and not taking up as much as I am, I can't -no, don't want to imagine what I look like. He lay with his right hand under his pillow, 95 percent sure that there is a knife tightly in it. I see an arm across his stomach, and look at the owner next. Catherine. Eyes wide open, staring at me, no smile across her face, and no attempt to hide the fact that she's been watching me the whole time. I gasp slightly, taken aback that she is awake, and when I open my mouth to say something, she shakes her head so slightly, I begin to wonder if I really saw her do that. I close my mouth, nod, and lay down beside Becca. I ponder why she didn't want me to say anything. Did she think it was weird that I watch them all as they sleep? Does she know that I have done it every morning for the past 6 weeks? Holy shit, has she been awake watching me do it and closing her eyes when she sees that her turn is next, and wanted me to know that she knows? God, I don't think it's weird that I do it, but would they?  

A million thoughts run through my head, and I don't even know what to think anymore. I stare up at the ceiling and just wonder what she is going to do, whether she's going to confront me, or tell the group, or just let it go. I think for so long that I lose track of the time, and forget about my inspection of the house before the others wake up. The thought enters my head, and I curse under my breath. After a quick time check, I grab the handgun beside the door, and as quietly as I can, stand up and walk out without giving Catherine a second glance.  

I lean up against the door slightly. 8:53. I literally thought about what Catherine was going to do for over an hour. That shit is not healthy. Besides, why would she say anything bad? She obviously knows that I care about the group, and must know that I only check to see that they're okay. Mostly. There are times that I wish I had a camera of some sort to blackmail Mark, or to imagine what life would have been like had I asked Catherine instead of Becca. But that's something that I can't take back, nor would I at this point. I love Becca, though I don't say it enough. I gue-