I walked the streets of my deserted neighborhood, two weeks after the first wave. I remained in my home the first two weeks, shocked. I had brutality murdered my family. They all got hit. Rotting flesh falling off there bones. They all attempted to kill me, by grabbing my skin and indenting there fingers into it. It took all I had to kill them. My dad, my sisters, my family. All I had known and loved had been torn from my grasp without warning. Why do I even bother living at this point?
