✧ ཻུ۪۪. love is the most beautiful of dreams ,
and the worst of nightmares . . .
in which the quiet sister of lizzie and mika learns that to love deeply is to ache - that hurt is part of the package, and the beauty...
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ELLA HAD ONLY KILLED ONCE.
One living creature, in her entire lifetime. While she had put an end to a portion of the dead, those with a beating heart remained a very exclusive category. It was not out of humane instinct, either. Ella never did harm a stray raccoon, or squirrel to eat. That was always her father. For the one time she aimed to kill, at the end of the barrel, there was a human. Someone who lived and breathed the same air as her, had people he loved. One of the few left, in their world.
A man, one barely younger than her parents.
The girl could still recall his face, even after all this time. Hair that lined his face, bushy at the end, splotches of blood staining his tan skin. An outfit that was consistent of torn rags, clothes than were dirtied beyond repair, loosely hung around his body. He looked starved. His wrists were thin, barely able to hold up a gun. His hand trembled while doing so, at least. While his firearm was pointed at Lizzie's head, a little girl so much weaker than his famished self.
It happened so fast, much quicker than how it felt. While their father left Ella with the only gun they had to go scavenge a nearby house, a man appeared, lured by their camp. Wires that protected their collection of canned food, foolishly left out in the open. Mika remained in the center of the site, when it happened. How suddenly he appeared, grabbing Lizzie by the throat, leaving her fate in the hands of the oldest girl.
All he wanted was food, Ella knew that. And she could have given it up, easily avoided guilt. Perhaps, that would have been the better option. Something that would no longer keep her up at night.
However, their mother had died, only days prior. Their food supply was short, and they had just crossed the Florida-Georgia line, entering a foreign land. There was no end goal, at the time. Each day was about survival. They were beginning to grow accustomed to the sound of the dead, moving camp sites in the dead of night, or fitting themselves in the back of a vehicle to sleep. Those nights, under cover, were a privilege. The little things that made life worth living, despite it all.
