The Change

Chapter One

     The crickets are quieter nowadays, which is strange. Over the past few years, I have learned that animals knew way more than we credited them for. It was as though when the Change happened, animals and insects all collectively agreed to "Shut the fuck up and survive," which was conveniently also what humans had made their catchphrase over the years. As if waking up every single day alone and afraid was easy. Most humans that were still breathing were trying because they had a purpose, whether that be to find a relative or raise their kids; even the fear of death is acceptable. Just something that makes the effort that goes into mere existence worth it. Unlike myself, these people deserved to live. They remained because they were destined to make a difference, to change this shitty world, and build everything up again from scratch. Some will find a cure and build significant communities with gardens, horses, and families. But that wasn't my destiny. I didn't have a purpose, a family, or a community.

     So, I, Joshua Hopkins, am sitting in an old, withering, abandoned shed with boarded-up windows and a near-empty bookshelf I used to block off the door somewhere in Houston, Texas. Sometimes, I can't help but think, Why? Why was I the one to survive? In my mind, there were so many people who deserved to live way more than me. My beautiful mom had this contagious laugh that could brighten anyone's day and meals that could fill you with warmth and comfort; my siblings were just beginning to discover their personalities and place in this world; my father was strict but made his mom happy, and Marshall... He was perfect. He received a full scholarship from Harvard and was on his way to becoming a criminal defense lawyer. Whenever I asked why, Marshall shrugged and said, "I want to buy my mom a car." He was so noble, such a good guy. He didn't even acknowledge that he was good, which was rare back then.

     I had no real hobbies or interests, worked at a failing DVD store that paid minimum wage, flunked out of college my first semester, and still lived with my parents at the age of 22. The only person who made me feel like I was worth something was gone and never coming back, just like everyone else on this godforsaken planet.

     I needed Marshall because I did not feel like continuing to carry on, sitting in a run-down shack, scooping cold peaches out of a can, the smell of mildew and death filling my nostrils. It's so fucking tiring. And I'm alone. The only sound seems to be the light patter of rain, and if I'm quiet enough, I can hear the distant sound of groaning.

     I honestly don't know why I continue to keep fighting. It seems like if I give up, everyone's deaths would be for nothing. If I don't survive, then what would be the point? They would just be another memory lost forever. They needed someone to survive, spread their names, and remember them.

Survive. I hate using the term live. Constantly hiding in fear, going days without eating, training your breath to come out as silently as possible? That was surviving, not living. I don't think I even know what the word life means anymore.

The rain eventually started slowing down, although I didn't realize it for a bit, too engrossed in my current read of the week, Romeo and Juliet. Cheesy, yes, but nowadays, reading is my only escape from the shit show happening around me 24/7. It reminds me of the little things I miss, like the library. The endless aisles of books, the smell of fresh paper, typing on keyboards. I run my fingers down the pages, old sticky notes and faded annotations covering them, from before Marshall when I was a lovesick 16-year-old, desperate to cling onto my first real relationship by connecting us to a story of two desperate teenagers who would much rather die than spend eternity apart. A sad, longing feeling fills my chest as I stare at the page I'm on;

"These violent delights have violent ends,

And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,