Alternate (Phan)

25*ok

Phil

I was lying down, head on the hard floor, my right hand stroking the wispy strands of hair on Ev's head. If I had breath left to sigh, I would have droned out a long puff of air. But there was nothing. That's a lie, there was something, there was emptiness. Despite emptiness consisting of nothing, it is still something.

There can never be nothing.

I think I fell asleep again that day. I lost track. My eyes remained heavy and it could have been a few hours ago I got changed into clean clothes, but it could also have been last month. My sense of time was nothing but a passing entity. For me in those months without Dan, time as I knew it was non-existent, replaced with untimely naps and self-neglect.

Ashamed of admitting it, I undoubtedly had been neglecting Ev. He'd not only lost Dan, he'd lost me. All because I realised I was useless. I was useless.

I bit my lip, feeling the cracked skin rub against my top teeth, peeling away at the raw flesh.

Every noise I feared.

Every breath I regretted.

Every passing second I wanted to alter.

I just seemed to manage to drain everything out by passing music through my ears and calming my nerves with Dan's wetube.

I stared at the hand that was soothing Ev, realising my nails had grown much too long. I ran the hand through my hair, it must be reaching my chin by now. It was, in fact, a little above my chin by an inch or two.

I'd sort out my appearance in the morning, if I say that every day.

I was living purely to exist, to survive the next second. I missed Dan so fucking much.

I was so sick of being depressed, but he came along in his black skinny jeans and t-shirt, his clothes - seemingly radiating darkness - lighting up my world like a match in a box. But he'd left and spat it out with my own blood, so now I can't even see my blood drip onto the surface around me.

I opened twatter, fumbling around with my connector to bring it at an angle in front of my face in which it wouldn't auto-rotate.

amazingphil, where ya at dad?

Is Dan ok? Are you ok? Are any of us ok?

BLinK tWICe foR HelP

blink blink

How's Ev, my growing grandson?

I started tapping at the keys.

I'm not dead, guys. But I can't say anything for Dan </3

Omg Phil WHAT?

Is everything okay, seriously?

PJ He'll come back soon, mate.

Punchthepj, thanks :(

I let the messages roll by, scanning through the lot of them. I put my phone down, instantly getting a sickly feeling to bring it back to my face.

I shook my head at my gut-feeling, rolling onto my back and drifting off again-

I woke up, seconds later without really ever falling asleep.

I groaned, pulling the connector to my face.

amazingphil, I want my lion.

I threw up, my entire body shaking as my head pounded against the walls of my scalp. My breathing hastened, returning every missed breath from the past few months. My chest ached like someone was trying to push my heart down into my stomach. I pulled my shaking hand towards the screen, clicking on the twait.

Dan enabled his location.

In all honesty, with where he was, I'm surprised he was still alive.

If he even was.

Everyone who took a breath in England knew the location, possibly even global. The prime of the war was horrific, I would explain it, but sometimes scenes, sights and news can't be written down. But imagine darkness everywhere, complete blackness. You then realise those hundreds of shades of black isn't darkness: it's nuclear soot, laid in sheets of blankets across every structure and landmark; both man-made an natural. Well, what remaining of the natural would that the soot didn't kill off. There's something else in the powdery soot-darkness and that's white. Pure whiteness, blinding you. Whiteness is normally seen within beauty, but how can it when the whiteness is from the grass that is supposed to glisten green? Each blade crunching under your steps, where they once brushed along the bare feet of young children, now lies crumbling ash. The only way to accurately describe the grass is bones. Not strong, healthy bones, but bones suffering from bristle bone disease, filled with gaps, so that when you stand on them, they do crumble to dust. Red. Your first thought is probably blood, but this red isn't from blood. It's the permanent pastey-colour which covers the sky. A red gas, blinding the sun, but the sun shouldn't be blinded. Corpses, you turn a corner to see the face mauled off of a lone being. They were either travelling alone, or were abandoned in injury. But that's the thing, it's just a corpse. It's just the vessel of someone that once was; that someone who will only remain a corpse, because they can't share their story. Because they're a corpse. Dead. Gone. Half the buildings in the world have crumbled, but I guess that's fair, seeming there's still plenty to suffice the living population in housing accommodation. Not that most people have a set place to call their homes, because it's dangerous to stay in one area at a time, people hunt you that way.

If you're a hunter: you can stay in one area because people fear you, they've heard your rumours. So why have I explained the prime of the war? Because it's not just the scenic after-mass that suffers: it's the people.

The good, the bad and the crazy.

The good, the people that risk their lives to help others. As majestic and morally correct that they are while living, you die out. Your good deeds to others simply turn into dust like the grass when it's trodden down. Wasted like the life you were given to live. The good might as well have never existed, they caused us tragedy and pain, pushing onto us a false belief of hope that the bad and crazy could only live for, but would they ever get it? No. Why? Because they're bad and/or crazy, and the world doesn't work like that.

The bad, the people that are selfish, lazy, abused, probably crazy. But who's not in this world who's survived? The bad survive because they live for themselves and themselves only. But it's a life of fear, and funnily enough most people would be more prepared to live for a month in good bliss than ten years in torture. I guess that's why suicide's a thing.

The crazy. A middle group between the two. You can be good and crazy: people forget about the good and you're just crazy. Good's the default, so if there's an accessory to your personality, that's who you now are, because good is a plain piece of paper. You can also be bad and crazy: that's dangerous. Those are the people that fear nothing but are feared by all. Those are the people who are the people hunters. The hunters that stick by a location, and if that location is known: it's most likely out of fear.

So, my knowledge of the location where Dan is.

I hope you've got my drift.