Log to the end of the world

My log to the end of the world

It's just like me to dedicate a depressing story to my happy-go-lucky- friend on her birthday, isn't it? This was inspired by 'Writer of a thousand colors' on fanfiction.net and Riesling on well, here. Credit for the story idea goes to writer of a thousand colors. Warning- majorly depressing. And tell me if I made any mistakes so I can fix it!

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We sort through the rubble, since there is no one else to do it. The dead deserve a resting place, after all. My friend, one of my only companions, finds a body. I looked at it. It was only a little girl.

Her legs were crushed, and half her face was burnt. I try to visualise what she might've looked like before the war, before all this. I can't. My friend cries, and I don't know how she can. I have no tears left to even try.

'Come on, let's go bury her with the others" I urged my friend. She nodded.

We follow the make shift path in the rubble. It hurt, stepping on those bits of concrete and rock. Our shoes were worn out- we had to wrap our feet in fabric to keep on going.

We walk a distance, until we get to a green hill. It's nice to know at least plants could still grow, even if it was just weeds and grass. It's a graveyard. Here if you were dead but still lucky, you could be buried. A man on the hill had been digging holes. He looked up and smiled at us. It's a bleak smile, with no warmth.

It's hard to find warmth in a world like this, much less in a graveyard. Much less in a smile. We walked over to him, and hand him the girl. He shakes his head and sighs.

"I think I knew her. Pesky little thing" he told us, his voice cracking. We could see tears well up in his eyes. But I knew they wouldn't come out. We can't afford the luxury of tears.

My friend gives him a shiny blue rock. He took it silently. We knew what it was to be, and they didn't have to be any discussing over it. It was to be a grave marker.

We continued on, towards camp. Most people had given up on digging for now. Winter would come in a few months, and we needed to be ready. It was decided  for there only to be 'one more week' of digging. Then we all had to stop.

We had found a shopping centre near by- its contents still intact. We were supposed to leave it be until winter, when we really needed the provisions. We were lucky. In some places- especially in Europe and the Americas, everything was in rubble, and there were minimal survivors.

We don't have a list of who died. There was no time for that. Some were beyond recognition anyway, and there were too many that had left us. It would've been a miracle if we could have written one, though. At least we know who survived, even though we didn't know who they were before the war.

We  knew that it wasn't a dream, because it hurt too much to be just a figment of imagination. And we knew that help wasn't going to come. Since we are better off than most, when we get back on our feet, I suppose we are going to be the help. It's a depressing thought, really.

Camp was only an area of unbombed buildings. We had cleared off the rubble. I suppose camp is home, but I don't think I'll ever get used to it. Before the war, home was comfortable, warm beds, nice toys, a family and suchlike. During the war, home was where you slept the night. Now, home is camp, where you worked so yours and others lives would be less miserable.

If you're reading this, I want you to look around you. See everything? Intact buildings, furniture and whatnot. And now think about what I have- nothing. Remember that I envy you, and that you have to savour everything you have- don't take anything for granted.

Sincerely,

- a survivor