Love is Dead

Shadows at the Gate

The greenhouse had become more than just a temporary refuge—it was a strange, quiet home. The warm smell of cooked tomatoes lingered in the air, mixing with the earthy scent of the plants that had somehow thrived despite the world outside falling apart. But there was still a lingering unease. I could feel it like a weight in my chest as if the walls of the greenhouse couldn't truly shut out the chaos beyond.

Logan's injury had slowed us down more than I'd like to admit, but we had no choice. The day had passed in a blur of quiet tasks—patching up the windows, organizing what supplies we had left, and keeping a low profile. The last thing we needed was for the survivors or any other predators to notice us.

Logan sat on the ground near the door, staring out into the overgrown yard. His knee was wrapped in a makeshift bandage, blood no longer actively flowing but the injury still visible—torn, swollen, and bruised. But despite how bad it looked, Logan didn't seem to feel anything. He hadn't winced once, hadn't complained about the pain. The only sign of it was the way he occasionally shifted his weight as if it was uncomfortable in a way I couldn't understand.

"Still no pain?" I asked, glancing over at him as I finished tying up the last of the herbs.

Logan looked down at the knee, an indifferent expression on his face. "No. Doesn't hurt. Not much of anything does anymore." He glanced up at me, a faint, almost distracted look in his mismatched eyes. "It's still healing, though. That doesn't mean it's not torn up."

I crouched beside him, carefully examining the wound. The flesh around it was raw, bruised, and scabbed over in some places, but there was no active infection. Just the slow, grotesque process of healing as his body fought against decay. I frowned, gently pushing aside the makeshift bandage to get a closer look.

"You are falling apart," I muttered, poking at the edges of the injury. His skin had a grayish hue, still soft and pliable but unnaturally still as if the healing process was slower for him than it should be.

Logan didn't react to my touch, his expression unreadable. "It's the way it is. I don't mind it."

"Well, I do," I said, checking the wound one more time before reapplying the bandage. "You might not feel it, but that doesn't mean it's not a problem."

He gave a slight shrug, looking around the greenhouse. "I'm used to it. This is what happens when you're stuck between two worlds."

"Yeah, well, it doesn't mean I'll stop trying to keep you in one piece," I replied, tightening the fabric around his leg. The stitches were crude, but they would hold after a bit of TLC.

"You should be glad I'm not complaining," Logan said, his voice light, almost playful, despite the rough condition of his body.

"Complaining wouldn't do you any good," I muttered, standing up and wiping my hands on my pants. "The fact that you're not screaming in pain is the only reason I'm still trying."

Logan chuckled under his breath, though his eyes remained distant, scanning the door. "You're a strange one, Carmen."

"Strange? I'm just not stupid enough to ignore an injury." I say as I stood up, glancing out the partially boarded window. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the yard. I couldn't help but think about the survivors—how long before they realized we were still here? How long until they came for what we had left?