Shards

Chapter 6

Upstairs, a window is broken, the ground littered with shards of shattered glass. My heart leaps at the sight, because it means that someone has been here--or something. 

"Hello?" I call out, into the darkness. The lights are weak from constantly being on, and flicker silence, as if responding to my qualm. 

I walk over to the window, examining. I half-expect to find something akin to a brick, the sort of heavy object a person would throw through a window to make someone else notice. But there's nothing, just glass and slushy, melted snow. 

Still, this is good, because it means that not too many days have passed. If it had been more than a month, there'd be a good chance this slush would not have melted, would have piled up in the form of snow. 

I'm proud of myself for knowing that simple fact that could very well keep me alive. 

Abandoning the window, I salvage my common sense and find a computer behind the desk. It takes a moment to start up again once the power button is pressed, but the computer manages, glowing blue for a moment, and then switching to a screen that I can't seem to make go away. 

"ATTENTION," it states, in bold, capital letters that stretch across the entire length of the computer like an authoritative scream. "Citizens of Rosdale! A threat to the government of the United States of America has arisen. Please evacuate immediately or risk annihilation."

There is no warning not to panic, no sentences describing this so-called threat or if it has targeted anywhere else than my town, Rosdale. 

Using my deductive skills once again, I decide that it hasn't, because if it had, the message wouldn't be targeted to just Rosdale--it would say 'citizens of the United States of America,' or something along those lines. 

Which also means that wherever everyone has gone, it can't be far. It's not hard to get out of this town. 

A small window on the bottom of the screen mentions that it is November thirtieth, a Saturday. There is no indication to when this alert was first put out, but I can remember that my accident was sometime around the fifteenth--which means it's been fifteen days, at most. That's just more than two weeks, which isn't too bad, really. 

The computer does not let me click out of the screen showing the alert. I grit my teeth and move onto the next one, hoping it will relent and let me open the messages app, the phone. Anything that could bring me one step closer to salvation. 

It doesn't work. I move on to the next, and then the next, until I have reached the end of the line of desks and there are no more options. In a fit of hopelessness I pick up the last computer, satisfyingly feeling the cords unplug, and throw it to the ground. 

Glass smashes, too loud but really, why should I care? I have no hope, anyways. 

I take a deep breath and move on. 

There is a lost-and-found beside the small staff room. In the staff room I find a colony of mice feasting on what used to be a closed refrigerator, and move on. 

I scavenge a winter coat and two warm pairs of pants, and pull them on. They might be overkill, but I do not want to freeze. There is a phone, too, but it is long dead. 

I throw that to the ground too. It's useless to me, and who would come back for it?

Outside, the parking lot is damp, slushy snow piled messily in places and even in others. I stomp through, finding the street mainly free of anything possibly slippery. 

There is a motorcycle in the parking lot, leaning against the side of the building, as if abandoned. I examine it for a moment, see its gas tank is full and it's a good model, new enough. 

I wrap my hands around the grips, and it feels wonderful, as if I am being reborn. I settle myself onto the seat. It is cracked from the elements, but not to the point that it's uncomfortable. 

A twitch of my hand and the engine revs, a loud sound in the silence that is this parking lot. 

I move slowly in the lot, for safety, but on the road I don't take such precautions. I glance into the neighboring buildings in search of anyone left behind, but don't see anything immediately, and don't have the patience to look any further. 

The wind blows through my hair as I ride, cold but wonderful. It makes me feel alive in the best way, in the way lustful boys and girls never could, the way no person ever really could.

It feels like days, but it is probably about an hour of racing through abandoned farmland before I reach the bridge. 

The bridge, Rosdale Bridge, is not the only way out of Rosdale, but certainly the easiest. It crosses the river that cuts Rosdale off from the rest of the world, at least on one side. 

And, naturally, it's collapsed. 

I slow to a stop before it, heart pounding with adrenaline and disbelief. My eyes are watering, and not just from the wind. 

It's not the same bridge as my accident, thank God. That one is in the opposite direction as this--I avoided it for a reason. 

This bridge is smaller, two lanes with no sidewalk, completely made of concrete. It stretches over the river which could very well be called a stream, barely twenty feet across. 

It's certainly swimmable, but I really do not feel like hurtling into possibly below freezing water right now, in full clothes. For mom of course I would, but if there is any other way, I'd take that instead. 

I let the bike fall to the ground. It lands with a metallic thump, the previously dry seat finding hospitality in a murky-looking puddle. 

Behind me, the sun has begun to rise, a small orange egg yolk above the distant hills. It shines the beginnings of a new day's light on the crumpled bridge. 

Investigating, I find that the center of the bridge has fallen completely into the river, leaving a gaping hole where there had once been stability. My heart feels the same. 

My breathing is labored and unsteady as I stumble away from the wreck, finding the bike again, climbing on and starting up, driving away too fast, brain swimming with hurt and betrayal. 

A small part of me recognizes the similarities to that one fateful night as I ride. My head didn't feel right then, either, and I was not going the speed limit. 

I speed up. It won't take long to get to the other side of town, to the other bridge. I won't like being there, but I will, and it will be okay. 

It won't take long. It won't take long. 

But it does take long. But my eyes close and then open again and then close when my brain's not paying attention. But the aching behind my temples won't go away, and oh, does it hurt. 

I am going fast, too fast too fast too fast, but it's fine, isn't it? It's fine. 

A crack in the road. It's not fine. 

I fly like a bird, and for a moment I am free. Then I hit the soft, damp grass, and I am chained again, stuck in this harsh, cruel world. 

A jolt of pain in my leg escapes through my mouth, and then the world spins and fades to black. 

The cold seeps through my clothes and into my bones, but I am fine. I'm always fine. 

Aren't I?

love u <3

1319 words