What We Lost

trespasser

Things have been hard. Really hard.

I thought I could do this on my own. I thought I could make it. But maybe I was a fool for believing so. You don't think things like this can happen to someone until they happen to you. And you're stuck floating in between reality and a whole other universe, wondering if you're just a tiny little molecule in a vast sky of endless things.

It's been 10 days and today I choose to rot. I lie in bed, staring up at my ceiling which was still adorned with stick-on glow in the dark stars. I remember- I got them on a whim at the dollar store with my chore money. When I lived with my parents I was never taught about the concept of money or spending, so I blew money on stuff like that. The stars have lost their glow over the years. I shut my eyes after a while of pondering, deciding to sleep.

I dream of a multitude of things. About Lucas, about the dead. My dream is interrupted as I heard the loud crash of breaking glass. I jolt up, wide awake now. What the hell was that? I clutch my gun which was resting on my nightstand, frozen in fear. It could be many things. An animal. A zombie. I hadn't even considered the possibility of a human until I hear rummaging in the kitchen. Was it Lucas? Could he possibly be turning up know? A flicker of hope comes over me for just a moment. But it's been 10 days. Lucas would have returned sooner- he loved me. He wouldn't keep me waiting. My fight or flight kicks in. I dash down the stairs, through the living room and into the kitchen. The figure stumbles backwards in surprise, landing into a pile of glass. It was a boy.

The intruder cries out in pain, holding his hands above his head, which were now bleeding.
"Who the hell are you," I growl, trying to sound as threatening as possible. The boy was tall- muscular, even. He could kill me in a second. So I had to pretend I had that ability too.

He stares at me, eyes wide with confusion and shock. "I- uhm,  Grayson?" He stands to his feet. He towered over me. I back up, trying to keep my distance.

"Okay, Grayson. Why are you in my fucking house?" I question, hands trembling.

He hisses looking down at his hands and then back up to me. "I thought it was abandoned. It looked abandoned.." he swallows, breathing heavily. "I thought I was the only one left."

I want to question him. I want to tell him off. But for some reason something was stopping me. I hesitantly lower my gun. I look to his hand, glass shards had pierced into his palm. "Sorry about that.. I mean- no. I'm not sorry. You broke into my house." I correct myself, brows furrowed.

"I guess it's my karma." He breathes. "Do you have uh.. bandages here?"

I sigh and gesture for him to follow me. As we walk up the stairs I ponder. What am I doing? He is a stranger. He could be dangerous. But I cling to what he said. He thought he was the only one left. And so did I. Now I know there is others out there. I lead him into the bathroom and pull out a first aid kit. Inside contained lots of things. I dug through the kit for a moment before pulling out a bottle of disinfectant alcohol, cotton balls, tweezers, and bandages. He sits on the edge of the tub. I stop, standing and facing him.

"Do you have any weapons." I say. He hesitates before pulling out a small handgun and a pocket knife. "Set them down."

He complies and slides them to the other side of the bathroom. With his weapons discarded I feel more comfortable. I slowly get closer, reaching out for his hand. I take his wrist, revealing his palm to me. "This is going to hurt." I murmur.

"I'll be fine." He says, looking up at me. I grab the tweezers and slowly and meticulously begin to pull each tiny piece out of his hand. He winces, clenching his teeth together. I blew on his hand to ease the stinging a bit. After probably 10 minutes, I manage to remove all the pieces. I reach down and get the bottle of alcohol and a cotton ball, pouring it onto the cotton. "This is going to hurt even worse." I say honestly. He prepares himself, shutting his eyes.

I touch the alcohol to the wound and he grunts, flinching away. I look at him apologetically. Eventually he lets me continue, and finally it's finished. I wrap the bandage around his wounded palms carefully.

"What's your name?" He whispers, breaking the silence. I look to him. "Vivian." For some reason that made him smile.

He had one of those boyish grins, like ones you'd see in a movie. Staring at him now, beneath the soot and cuts that covered his face, he wasn't bad looking. His hair was dark- eyes green. And gentle, which was unexpected. He had olive skin and thin scars adorned his face. One on the bridge of his nose, a few on his cheeks. And I begin to wonder- how did he manage to get here? Was he who he said he was?