When the World Ends

Faded Color

I wonder if the boy with the gray eyes ever crossed the lightning field. He'd left me long before then, after all.

   I can recall her brown eyes, full of hurt for so long but, at the end, so full of love, too.

   I remember her brown hair, long, tossed about in the wind. She complains that it won't stay out of her face, and that the boy took her hair ties.

   I asked her the story, once. Apparently, she'd been something of a kleptomaniac. So, the boy had taken the hair ties as leverage for something of his--a pen, or a pencil, I think. She'd returned his things, but he'd lost her hair ties. She held the grudge over that even after the world ended.

   I see her blue jeans, her red sweater that the weather had beaten pink. She'd always worn black shoes with bright colors on the sides--it hadn't been good for remaining unseen, but the ash had diluted the colors in the end. 

   I picture her in my mind. I hold a small, square photo of her. Recently, it's begun to fade. That's why I try to remember her as much as I can; so I don't forget. I'm so scared I'll forget.

   The photo has blurred in the center, turning her head and upper body into a blurred white mess. I don't know where the other pictures are; I assume they remain with her body, in the ash-ridden wasteland that the world has become. This photo is all I have.

   That's why I'm bothered so much by one thing.

   Why can't I remember her face?

Two major issues we'd encountered in our time since the world had ended: sight and bodily functions.

   She'd worn contacts. Without them, she'd be blind as a bat. That was her first worry.

   So, naturally, we'd gone to her home to retrieve what she needed. By now, we'd both realized that neither of our parents were coming back. And if they were somehow alive, then staying here to die wouldn't help either party.

   So, we'd decided to go scrounge what we could from our homes.

   The teacher's home had been closer to Robin's, so we'd walked there first. It had taken a couple hours, but we'd finally arrived to find it still standing.

   She was ecstatic. She'd run inside and grabbed everything she could find: water bottles, canned food, flashlights, batteries, you names it. Then, she'd grabbed three large, heavy-duty backpacks out of a bedroom and told me to start packing things in them.

   Who made you the boss?

   Ehh? I did. Keane, did you forget you're the epitome of trouble in school?

   Not trouble, class clown.

   You're more of a douche bag than a clown, though.

   Ah, we hadn't gotten along well back then. I'd simmered in anger but done as she'd said, and by the time I'd finished, she'd come back down with another packed bag.

   I'd put the food and water in two bag, and the flashlights in another. She packed a tent and some blankets into the flashlight bag, filled the other two bags completely up with food and water, and then turned to her own bag. In it, she'd put more blankets and clothes, as well as two pairs of glasses and what remained of her contacts. Then, she'd run off into another room and come pack with a lunch box. It had a clip which allowed her to attach it to her bag; I'd asked her what was in it.

   Medicine. We'll need it.

   Oh, that makes sense.

   Yeah. 

   She'd paused, and then added, I don't want to stay here for the night anymore.

   I'd nodded. Even though we weren't great friends, we were close enough now to at least understand each other a bit.

   So we'd put our bags on our shoulders--four bags, two per person, one per shoulder--and found them to be insanely heavy. Realizing that there'd be no possible way to travel this heavy, she'd run into her garage and returned with a red wagon. We piled our bags on it when she seemed to recall something.

   She'd told me to wait a minute before she'd run upstairs. She returned with a smaller backpack. I'd asked her what was in it--if it wasn't important, then we'd need to toss it, since we were already traveling too heavy as it was.

   But she'd said, Some papers, pens, pencils and journals. Some books, too, and a lot of tampons.

   I'd blinked. What?

   You heard me, Keane. I don't want a disaster on my hands.

   Ah, I see. I'm sorry I asked.

   Your eye's twitching.

   I'm sorry?

   Keane, you're...--she'd sighed then finished with--something else.

   What's that supposed to mean?

   That had spun an argument and heated discussion that had lasted until we'd arrived at another shelter we deemed safe to stay at for the night. Even after we'd both laid down to sleep, the tension in the air was still palpable.

   On the bright side, though, we'd temporarily solved our two biggest issues.

   Well, hers, anyways.