petrichor → r. a.

{ V } d r e a m e r

"The thing with broken clocks is

you can always tell 

exactly

when they stopped t i c k i n g.

With people it isn't so easy

and sometimes

you can't even tell

they're b r o k e n."

❀⊱ N.H. ⊰❀

{ Ida }     2 n d     o f     M a y,     2 0 2 4

Back when I was small, before the rain hit, I used to loose myself in my own head. I could conjure up whole planets with deep, deep oceans and creaking ships with huge sails to explore them. Stone-bricked castles with turrets that stretched way into the clouds where some huge God sat on his throne of shimmering diamonds and gold slabs. I would always be there as well. Sometimes the young apprentice of a centuries-old wizard; sometimes a peripatetic, a wanderer without a map, guided by only my heart. Sometimes an all-powerful being myself who could make cities crumble and rebuild them with the flutter of a butterfly's wing.

But, as I grew, I noticed a trend in all my fantasies. I would always give myself two perfect parents who saw a universe of stars in each others eyes. And siblings who loved me to the moon and back. Who would protect me with their life. One time a younger brother, next time an older sister. That was all I needed back then. A family. A friend, even. Except I destroyed my chances of that, too, because my imagination became more than my escape. It became my life. I spent more time inside my mind than actually in reality. Since my mum was so occupied with work and trying to take care of me she didn't even notice. And neither did I. I quit going to school was because of it, yet still no one noticed.

There was nobody ever there for me, to ground me to the earth, which was something I so desperately needed. I was a helium balloon with no tether attached; only going up, up ... up ...... (until I drowned in the rain).

Little did I know, I was now staring straight at my tether.

The whole curly haired, only-wearing-underwear, confused mess of it. As soon as he finished dragging the other girl out of the bunker to saftey, he seemed so fascinated by the outside world, digging his hands into the mossy dirt.

I didn't realise at the time, but that was the exact moment I became fascinated by him. How a person could see the beauty in this disgusting world was beyond me.

Then he locked his glowing eyes with mine. I hadn't known warm blue eyes existed, as if he had a whole turquoise ocean, like the magnificent ones I designed, inside them.

I instantly buried my face in the dirt as blood pulsed in my ears. What was I doing? He'd seen me. All I could do was laugh. My only coping mechanism left.

"Get inside! Now!" Martin.

I looked up. The pair were being herded back into the bunker by the group. In fear of being left behind, I scrambled to my feet, but since my army boots were way too big I tripped on a string of ivy and collapsed to the ground with a shout. Immediately I pushed myself back up and swore under my breath, knowing everyone had seen. Hell, Martin should just shoot me now.

However, he ignored me. Beatrice motioned for me to hurry up and I willingly mingled with the group again, attempting to appear tough and well put-together like the rest of them seemed to be. This was why I worked as a lone warrior.

We tumbled down the bunker steps and into a round area with sliding glass doors leading off in all directions. There was a strong aroma of hand sanitiser and lemony soap, something I hadn't smelt in a long while.

"Go! Get in there!" Martin yelled at the teenagers and locked them in a small room with a tiny rectangular window.

I felt helpless. Both of them had a mark of absolute terror carved across their faces. Anyone could tell they meant no harm, couldn't they? And they didn't seem diseased either. But then again, who was I, the girl who didn't even fit in with these people, to question Martin and his lot's authority?

Martin was screaming orders as soon as the door locked with a click.

"Patrick, unblock the air vents. Lea and Beatrice, check the left wing. Jean, you check the right." His stony grey eyes came to rest on me, standing awkwardly, fiddling with the handle of my knife. He pointed at me. "And ... you. Stay here. Don't get into trouble. And, whatever you do, do not let them out. Clear?" 

I nodded, even though he was speaking to me like I was a toddler. I don't think Martin realised I'd survived as long as him; probably fought just as many battles. Hopefully I could prove myself. I watched him sprint off in a different direction, then, curious, I turned to the prisoners. I pried off my gas mask and peered into the window.

The girl looked panicked as she paced up and down the small room before catching my eye and running over. She yelled something, but it was muffled by the door. I furrowed my eyebrows and tilted my head to the side. The girl dragged a hand down her face and tried to yell something again. Then, in the corner of the window, I glimpsed the boy: head in his hands, practically tearing his strawberry-blond curls out of his scalp.

Something inside me burst.

This was inhuman.

These were just two kids. Like me.

Since when did 'survival' turn into this?

As if I was no longer myself, as if I was merely watching from the low roof of the bunker, my quivering hand reached for the metallic door handle and pulled down, down,   d o   w       n ...

All of a sudden, an unmistakable gun's 'chuk chak' echoed around the room.