"Falling in love. And say, it's crazy. Falling. You see? We don't say 'rising into love.' There is in it the idea of the fall." -Alan Watts
This isn't just some story where the boy and girl fall for each other, and everything is okay. It's a story w...
"Never deprive someone of hope; it might be all they have."
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Two Years Later
Skylar.
I've been alone for a very long time—or at least what feels like a long time. I'm starting to believe that I am the only survivor in this godforsaken world because I haven't interacted with another living human being since the last time I saw Carl. At this point, he is likely dead.
I can't remember exactly when, but I found my dad roaming the city. He was dead, by the looks. He had been for a while, and the only thing in his pocket was an empty flask. As soon as he saw me, he'd stumbled towards me, arms reaching out and grasping for me, soft growls escaping his undead lips. I had easily stabbed him, feeling no remorse whatsoever. My father was dead, but the memory still lingered like a scar.
"Sweetheart, would you get me a beer?" Dad yelled from the living room.
"I-I think you should stop drinking for tonight," I had said to him, nervous to hear the answer. He could be an angry man, especially when it came to his alcohol problem.
"What did you say?" He asked harshly as he began moving towards me with heavy feet.
"N-nothing, dad. Never mind," I stuttered, backing out of the kitchen, afraid of what he might have done to me if I'd challenged him any more than I already had.
"You do not tell me what to do! Understand?" He screamed, grabbing my shoulders and shoving me against the wall.
I whimpered; my lips quivered as tears pooled in my fearful eyes.
"I'm sorry, dad. I'll go to my room," I spoke, barely above a whisper.
"I don't think you are, though," he muttered.
I knew something was going to happen, but I didn't know what. And that, somehow, was scarier than his usual, predictable behaviour.
Then, I felt a searing pain on the skin of my stomach, and it only lasted a few seconds and grew every time he moved his hand. Letting out a pained scream, my father let go of my shoulders, and I dropped to my knees.
"Now, go to your room," he spat before grabbing a beer and returning to the living room.
He felt no remorse for putting me through that pain. I still didn't know what had caused the burning sensation, but I had an idea.
