Vices

by Amy Solus

  Chapter 18

  The air is cold and bites at my skin and I cross my arms and attempt to keep the little heat that is left in me. It must be November by now, the leaves from the trees are long gone and the cold bitter winter is obviously rolling in. Something hits me that should’ve hit me a very long time ago: Where are we?

  I scavenge through my thoughts, attempting to find the answer to that distressing question, and unfortunately to no avail. There is nothing but a big open chunk of nothing where that answer should be. I kick myself for never asking anyone.

  “Um- Mara, where exactly are we?” I ask.

  “We’re somewhere in what used to be Missouri,” she replies.

  Oh. At least we aren’t somewhere like Arizona or Maine or something. I’m glad I’m still close to home.

  I stop myself after thinking that. Home? I feel as though I know nothing of the word now. I always thought “home” was a place, but maybe it’s a person, or maybe even a feeling. I question whether I should call it “where I grew up” from now on, or something. Now that everyone I loved are gone, my old home is nothing but a graveyard.

  I’m not sure whether or not I should ask Mara or Devlin where exactly we’re heading or if this silence means they’re having a moment or something. I decide it’s probably best for me to just keep following them; they do seem to be going in a certain direction. Devlin still has Ossy slung over his shoulder, but Ossy seems to be either completely unconscious or exceedingly drowsy.

  Mara is looking off into the distance, almost like she’s keeping her eye out for someone or something, her eyes scanning the horizon carefully. The sun is dipping down towards the ground, so sunset is soon. I hope we get to wherever it is we are going before the night falls.

  The prison is positioned near a small abandoned town; what us survivors call a “lost town,” but the town is so small that we’re out of it within minutes. I remember driving through small towns on the way to my grandma’s house when I was a kid, and I always enjoyed seeing how few people there could be in one town. You would be surprised at how many small towns there are in the Midwest.

  We continue our trek through the countryside, our scenery changing from abandoned homes to the lightly charred remains of farm land. It doesn’t look as though it has been as greatly affected as other places I’ve been to. It actually looks to be on the verge of a rebirth of some sort, like it may start sprouting life again.

  The litter that is scattered around the road is hardly litter at all. I’d be more likely to call it “remains”- purses, toys, hats, coats, and wallets-- really anything that would’ve been essential to the living. It’s certainly a somber sight. There’s so many things left over, but they are lacking what they existed for-- people. Without humanity being greedy and needy, the items just look lonely and lost.

  The guard railing on a bridge we cross over is bent and misshapen.

  I can see the remains of fish that had once lived in the river floating on top of the perverse liquid. I hope that, with all of the power the government has, they are looking to clean up the world. I can hardly believe they would take so much away just to have their power. Their eyes must be completely shrouded by their greed or else they must truly be monsters.

  The roads are even beginning to fall apart, the cracks have widened from the winters that have passed since the end. Also, the surface has been altered-- it once was smooth and perfect for driving on, but now it is something similar to a low-grained sand paper. The acidic substances they shot through the air have been working its way through everything it can, roads included.

  Devlin and Mara have been silent for the past hour of walking and the silence is becoming a bit uncomfortable. The angry sighs escaping from them are an audible ode to their increasingly strained relationship.

  Ossy should be glad that he’s still unconscious. Sooner or later I’m just going to whack them both upside the head and force them to have a talk about their problems. The sun has set when Devlin finally brings us to a stop in a slightly grassy lot of land. The grass may be completely dried up and dead, but it is grass nonetheless.

  There’s nothing for miles around us, and as he slings Ossy off of his back and onto the ground, I cannot help but feel like staying here would make us sitting ducks. We did just break out of prison and you’d think we’d be hiding in a better spot than this.

  Devlin sees the anxiety on my face and attempts to put it to rest. “Love, we’re just stopping for a spell, it gets hard carrying a fella’ like him around for this long,” he says reassuringly.

  I let out a sigh of relief and plop myself onto the ground. Mara hasn’t stopped walking, and once she gets to the top of the nearest hill, she stops and looks out over the horizon, her eyes still scanning for who knows what. The sky that lies in front of her is so clear and empty; it’s something that an artist would’ve died to have the chance to paint.

  Devlin sees Mara surveying the land and after he moves Ossy into a more natural position, he walks over to her in silence, his hands in his pockets and his gait not looking as confident as usual.

  I feel like I should give them some alone time so I turn myself around so that I’m facing the other direction. I’m a bit surprised that there’s no snow on the ground yet, but as cold as it is outside, I’m very thankful that there isn’t any.

  I swing my backpack around so it’s setting in front of me and I open it up to find all the belongings I have to my name. I pull the wad of papers I had been writing on out of my pants pocket and unravel them, making sure I don’t tear them, and then place them carefully on the ground beside my backpack.

  The four other shirts I’ve been wearing for the past five years are nestled at the top of my bag, surely anxious for me to get back to wearing them again. It’ll be nice having more than three outfits again. My two pairs of jeans are right below them, with my other necessities, underwear and socks, next to them. My brain travels back to the last time I washed them or had a nice warm shower and I can hardly believe how unhygienic I’ve been for the past five years. My mother would be disgusted!

  Back in the days when my mom was still around, anytime I ever became dirtied from outside work or just in general, she would always send me off to the shower without a word. She was certainly a bit of a neat freak. She would always tell me, “Aidan, if you had it your way, you’d never bathe!” and I would just shake my head and say, “Yeah mom, you got that right.”

  I pull all of the clothing from my backpack and fold it into nice little piles. I always loved a nice clean crease on my shirts. Underneath my clothes inside the backpack are some cans of mandarin oranges and pineapple (my favorite), and some other miscellaneous items. One of those miscellaneous items is my notebook and another is my sketch book. Both of them are incredibly worn, but they’re both incredibly loved.

  The green leather cover of my sketch book is scratched and dirty, but I know I’ll never get around to cleaning it up. I wouldn’t want to. I like the way it looks. On the other hand, my sketch book’s wire binding is twisted and even a bit rusty. The combination of the green leather and the rusty metal brown makes me think of a tree.

  I place my sketchbook on the ground and pick up my notebook. Its smooth exterior feels good against my cold skin. Its cover is a dark navy, it reminds me of those spring days where the sky would send down sheets and sheets of rain, giving life to a seemingly dead world.

  I pick up the sheets of paper that hold the story of my prison experience and place them inside the front cover. My notebook will be a much safer place to write, being that the sheets are all safe together, snug and comfortable. Hopefully one day I’ll be able to get this transferred to a computer of some sort, if I get my hands on one. If not, I’ll have to go back and write in a more appealing manner and be sure to not spill any foreign liquids on my papers; not that I did or anything...

  I place my notebook on top of my sketchbook and hunt through my backpack for my pencils and my charcoal. If I’m sketching, you will nev
er catch me without my charcoal. And no, I’m not a painter; I’ve always just considered the whole process too messy for my taste. Charcoal may get your hands dirty, but it doesn’t splatter or stain as much as paint.

  I finally dig out my bag of pencils and charcoal and open it up and take a huge whiff of its succulent contents. Call me an oddball, but I’ve really missed the smell of them. As I pull my charcoal out of the bag, I can’t help but feel an excited sort of feeling, a feeling of freedom that I haven’t felt for quite awhile. I’ll finally be able to create something, something that could be sad, powerful, silly, or beautiful.

  I suppose my first creation on this newly started journey of mine will have to be a tree or something like that; they have always been my favorite subject. They never move or complain if you’re taking too long to draw them.

  I rub the charcoal between my fingers, watching it mark my fingers and add a shadow that had never been there before.

  I put the little black stick back into my bag of supplies and put the bag on top of my sketchbook, being careful not to damage any of its fragile contents. I may have some pastels left in there and I’m guessing there won’t be too many craft stores open wherever we’re going.

  As I look back into my backpack, I spot a feather that I’ve had since I was a little girl. The feather is jet black; it’s a feather my dad had given me after my first crow had died. I remember crying in my room, wondering why Roy (the name I’d given the crow) had died. I had loved him will all my heart, or maybe just as much as a five year old could’ve. My father had been a bird trainer and researcher; he could train hawks, falcons, eagles, pigeons, crows, sparrows, you name it. If it’s a bird, he’d trained it.

  The smooth edge of the charcoal black feather is soft against my skin and I study it carefully. My father always kept beautiful birds; parrots, doves, canaries; but I would always pick a crow to keep as my pet. They were dark, mysterious birds, but they were proud and incredibly strong as well, not to mention incredibly smart and resourceful. Roy was my very first crow and there was a very long list of crows after him.

  I remember the last crow I had; his name was Zeus. The thought of him makes me laugh, but the laughter is bittersweet. He would always pick things up in my room and bring them to me, whether I needed them or not. He may have been one of my kindest crows. He always seemed to nudge me whenever I was feeling down and his company would always brighten up my day.

  I do recall my friends being put off by the fact that I didn’t have a cat or a cute little puppy, but rather a large black and white crow sitting in my room all of the time.

  I remember one day I had brought some friends over to work on a group project and once we had all gotten settled in and were working hard, Zeus had cawed one of his mighty caws and had scared the living daylights out of my friends. We had all forgotten he was present, so we all had a good laugh about it. Though I have a feeling their laughs were covering up their uneasiness with him. Needless to say, they always asked to hang out or study in the basement.

  I still think of Zeus often; he was such a mighty, yet kind bird. I can’t imagine him just dying off once we had parted. I’m sure he’s doing well and is currently living in some neighborhood that has a large supply of road kill (his favorite).

  Perhaps he’ll come flying in and he’ll recognize me and we’ll live happily ever after. I would certainly be incredibly thankful if that were the case. I miss his company, and all of those little added caws he’d throw into conversations I had with people.

  I remember a couple nights before they started herding people out of town, I tied a blue string around his leg hoping that if I had to set him free, I would be able to recognize him and take him back home. Maybe the blue string is still attached. Maybe I’ll see a dark shape with a blue line soaring across the sky one day.

  I pick up my sketchbook and flip through the pages, looking for a picture I may had kept of him. I find one, and see the two words written on the back: “Daurian jackdaw.” Wow, I had kind of forgotten he was a little more exotic that the crows in the Midwest. As I turn the picture over, I can’t help but smile at the sight of him. He had a large area of gray/white on his front side, with black all around. He really was a very beautiful bird.

  I remember when my dad had brought him home after a time-consuming trip to eastern Siberia. My dad had traveled there hoping to study the birds of the region, and he ended up bringing a couple home with him, Zeus being one of them.

  The time that I spent with him was so extensive in quantity-- and in quality—that it makes him easily my most memorable bird. I hope he’s still alive.

  I place the picture back inside my sketchbook and put it back on top of my notebook. I replace all of my belongings back into my bag and give out a large sigh. The world seems incredibly heavy all of a sudden, and I lay back onto the ground, staring up at the sky.

  The ground is cool on the skin of my back, and sends a shiver down my spine. My thoughts travel to my old life-- when I still had my family, my friends, my home, my crow. I wonder if my life will ever become as whole as it used to be, or if I’ll always be as alone as I feel I am.

  I hear Ossy groan. I sit up and look over to the ex-prison guard who has attempted to clutch his leg with the arm that has also been shot. His cry of pain shows his mistake.

  “Oh, god! This hurts like hell!” I laugh at the irony in his choice of words and move myself over to him, basically just dragging myself on the ground out of laziness.

  “Hey Ossy, nice to see you up and well,” I say sarcastically.

  He shoots me an angry look; he obviously doesn’t appreciate good sarcasm when he hears it. “Yeah, I’m doing absolutely fabulous. Mind if I shoot you twice and make a joke out of it?”

  I smile at him, attempting to relieve some tension. Note to self: Ossy has no sense of humor. “I’m sorry, okay? I was just attempting to lighten up the situation, no need to get all defensive,” I reply.

  “I know. It’s just that this hurts like hell, I just regained consciousness, oh-- and this hurts like hell.”

  I chuckle to myself a bit and he eases up his angry glare.

  “Where’ve the other two run off to?” he asks. I look up, my eyes gazing over the open countryside. I spot them about a hundred yards away; they look like they’re just casually chatting or something.

  “They’re over there,” I point to their relative location, “they look like they’re just talking or something. No baseball bats out to beat each other yet.” He smiles from the last comment.

  “So they’re boyfriend/girlfriend, right? They seemed to be giving off the pissed-off-couple vibe to me when we were walking before.”

  “Yeah, she actually got herself into trouble so that she could get into the prison and get him out,” I reply.

  “Everything is startin’ to make sense, then. Mara was this sad lonely thing when I was back at the Mansion with them. Taylor was always comforting her like Mara had just gone through losing a loved one or something. I never talked to either of them; never had the heart to bother them.” My brow furrows in curiosity as I hear him bring up the Mansion. I have to ask.

  “So you were at this Mansion before you became a guard?”

  “Yeah…,” He replies with a deep pause. “They decided it was best for me to be the man to do the infiltrating for the group. Can’t say I didn’t do a bad job of it, but I can’t say I enjoyed it either.”

  “I doubt Mara really enjoyed having to be on the prisoner side of the prison either, but she did. She told me that seeing Devlin alive was the happiest moment of her life.”

  “Wow, so they’re obviously pretty close then, huh?”

  “I would guess so. I think she’s a bit bummed about the loss of her friend Taylor, though.”

  “Wait, the loss?”

  “Yeah, don’t you remember when that rat-faced guard gave the whole spiel about her dying or whatever?”

  “Oh,” he says. The look on his face is not a look that
can mean anything good. It looks like he’s got some really bad news to share.

  “What?” I ask, wide-eyed and worried.

  “Uh, I don’t think he was being all that honest about that. I think she’s still being held in the solitary cell block,” he admits.

  “Oh lord,” I say. “Wait, so she’s not dead and we broke out of prison without her?!”

  “Uh, yeah, I’d say that’s about right,” he says.

  “OH. MY. GOD,” I say as I clutch my hair and attempt to keep myself from pulling it out. “Ossy, we’re going to have to tell them about this. This is big. This is not good-- not good at all.”

  “Eh, considering I’ve been shot twice, can we wait until I get medical attention before we let them in on this whole thing? I’d really rather not wait for a while before getting this cleaned up.”

  “Ossy, you do realize that they probably wouldn’t force you to go back in and get her, right? It’s not like you have obligations to them or anything.”

  “No, you’re right, but I do have obligations to Kael.”

  “Who’s Kael?” I ask.

  “Uh, the guy who, uh, runs our little group. He’s sort of the head honcho.”

  “Oh, well, I guess if that’s the case, then you’d have to talk with him, which I’m guessing would have to take place at your secret headquarters or wherever. Doesn’t your secret headquarters have a first aid kit or something?”

  “Uh, yeah. A doctor lives in the mansion. Edan was a doctor when he was younger.”

  “Who’s Edan?” I ask quizzically.

  “That’s not important right now. Just go over to ‘em and tell them that we need to leave as soon as possible,” he replies.

  “Okay, I guess,” I say as I stand myself up.

  I start my trek over to them, but stop myself. I’ve wanted to ask him this since our run-in with the rat-faced guard.

  I turn back to the bloodied guard and ask, “Hey Ossy, what’s Ossy even short for?”

  “Uh, Osmond,” he says with a confused look on his face.

  “Ah, well I was just wondering. I couldn’t think of a name with ‘Os’ in it, even.”

  I turn back toward the couple and feel the blistery wind bite at my face. My walking turns into a slow jog after a couple of steps. The sound of frostbite isn’t all that appealing to me. Hopefully we’ll be able to get indoors ASAP.

  Once I reach Devlin and Mara, I stop dead in my tracks. From the looks of it, Devlin is actually holding a cellphone. The sight of it literally makes my jaw drop.

  The government had taken control of all of the radio and power lines, the newspapers and news stations, and in some places they had even attempted to cause the internet connections to become faulty. But the thing that was like a final stab in the heart was them taking over the cellphone towers. Rebellions had fallen apart because people were unable to communicate from far distances. Nobody knew how to train carrier pigeons or do Morse code anymore.

  I remember how isolated I had felt when they destroyed the cellphone towers. I felt as though I’d never see any of my friends again, which at the time was a total impossible, completely unbelievable nightmarish kind of a situation. Now that terrible thought is most likely the truth, unfortunately.

  Devlin takes notice of my jaw lying on the floor and tries to put an end to my shock. “’Ey love, we’ve set up a small cellphone tower at our base, this bugger actually works,” he says with a wink.

  “But how?” I ask.

  “We’ve got a pretty talented group of people down at the headquarters. These skills we’ve all got are the reason we’re still alive and together.” That last comment obviously hit a very tender soft spot in Mara’s heart, causing her to flinch as if she’d been hit; I’d guess that the thought of Taylor has entered her mind.

  Devlin’s kind eyes have fallen on his distressed love and he wraps his arms around her. I’d say the force of his embrace could close to smother Mara. It’s become quite evident that Devlin’s strength is not in gentleness. Mara releases her arm from his grasp and returns the hug which opens up a small air pocket for her to breathe.

  My insensitive side strikes and I decide that it’s better to be smart rather than let them have their moment. “Hey, Ossy really should get some medical attention as soon as he can. Can we keep moving?”

  Devlin releases Mara from his all-encompassing hold and says, “Aye, they’ll be picking us up in the early morn. We don’t need anybody seeing a van driving around when the stars are bright.”

  “So should I tell Ossy to go to sleep or should we stay awake?”

  “Nah, get Ossy comfortable and put yourself to rest, too. I’ll stay awake with me eyes on the road.”

  “Okay,” I say awkwardly. Mara isn’t giving me the kindest look and I suppose I deserve it. “Sorry for ruining your moment, it’s just that he’s kind of suffering from two gunshot wounds and it’s getting really cold. Uh, I’m really sorry,” I choke out.

  Mara gives out a forgiving sigh and gives me another one of her warm smiles.

  “It’s okay, I guess we probably should’ve been thinking more about him and his injuries anyway,” she replies.

  “Okay, well I’ll go make sure he’s not laying on a root or something. Good night,” I say.

  “Good night.”

  “G’night,” says Devlin with his thick accent, which seems to smother the words in its richness.

  I walk back over to Osmond, who has ripped off one of his pant legs and wrapped it around the gunshot wound in his arm. I wonder if I should get somebody else to give him a shirt or something to cover up his leg. I highly doubt he wants frostbite to be added to his list of ailments.

  “Os--is it okay if I call you that-- and, uh, they said we should just go to sleep. They said we’re going to get picked up in the early morning,” I say.

  “Yeah, it’s fine,” he mutters. He scratches his head with the arm lacking a gunshot wound and looks up at me. “So do we just sleep here or should we move somewhere else?”

  “They didn’t say anything about moving, so I’d guess we can just stay here.”

  “But we need insulation or something between us and the ground,” he says. “You know that the ground is much colder than the air, right?”

  “Well I guess if it’s just for a couple of hours, it couldn’t do much damage, right?” I ask.

  “Meh, I suppose it couldn’t do all that much harm to us,” he says as he lies onto his back. “Well I guess the added pain wouldn’t make such a difference anyways,” he mutters.

  I move over to my backpack and sling it onto my back. “Should we lie next to each other so we can, you know, share body heat or whatever?” I ask.

  “Eh, yeah. You’re kind of thin though,” he says with a smirk. “I’d probably be giving more to you than I’d be receiving.”

  I smile and drop my backpack to the ground next to him. “Well sorry, I’ve been living off canned mandarin oranges for the past five years. They don’t do much for bulking you up really.”

  He smiles and scratches his head again. “Ah well, maybe you’ll get some meat on your bones once we’re back at base, where there’s a plentiful amount of food.”

  I bring myself down to the ground and position my head on top of my backpack; it’ll be my surrogate pillow for the night. “There’s really lots of food there?”

  “Yeah, Kael is really good about always having enough for everyone,” he says and then pauses for a moment. “At least that’s the way it was when I left, maybe they’re running out of food now. I can’t say I really know.”

  “Ah, well way to cheer me up Os.”

  We both laugh and then a companionable silence spreads over us. I can smell the blood from his wounds and I nearly gag after I take in a deep breath. I retrieve a small bandana from my backpack and place it over my nose and mouth, attempting to keep the bitter smell of iron out. It also blocks the wind from my face.

  “Sorry ‘bout the blood. I know how ha
rd it is trying to sleep next to people that reek.”

  “It’s not really your fault. How do you know that? Did the other guards get in fights or something?”

  “Nah, sometimes Guerra would have his higher-up men beat us if we were even relatively kind to you inmates,” he admits. “I got beat to a pulp once. All I did was give an extra roll to a gal who had dropped hers.”

  “Wow, they’re as brutal to the people on their side as they are to the people who they’re trying to control.”

  “Yeah, Guerra is really adamant on making sure that kindness is a forgotten principle in human life,” he says. “I guess in reality, we’re all being controlled. Doesn’t really matter what side we’re on. The high government officials are really the only ones who have the freedom now.”

  “They just want to have absolute control.”

  “Yep—which they’re pretty close to actually accomplishing now.” He gives a quick sigh. “There’s only a matter of time ‘til everyone is brainwashed and doing everything the government wants them to do.”

  “Do they really brainwash people?” I say, with a terrible sense of dread spreading over my face.

  Os chuckles as he watches my facial expression turn to utter fear and replies, “Yeah, some of ‘em. But really, it’s only the weak ones, the ones who have nothing left to live for really.” He squirms around a bit and as I look over to him, I can see that his eyes are scanning the emerging stars overhead. He seems to have delved into a deep thought.

  I take a couple of moments, picking my words carefully. “But, doesn’t everyone have something to live for? You know… the meaning of life or whatever?”

  “Yeah, but think about all of the people who lost their entire family in the purge. I bet some of those people used to be all about living for their family, providing for their family, all of that. Can you imagine having what you always wanted-- always dreamed of-- taken away from you so ruthlessly?” He takes in a deep breath before he can finish his thought. “Once everything you love is gone, is there really any reason to go on?”

  “Of course,” I reply instinctively.

  “Explain.”

  I turn my body toward his, making sure I’m getting my point across. “Os, my entire family, my home, my pet—my most loved companion, my stuff-- absolutely everything-- was taken away from me. I wandered for five entire years. I met some kind people who helped me through the loneliness, but I also met incredibly cruel people,” I admit. I trace the scar on my left hand with my finger, and place my hand close to his face so he can see the deep gauge with his own eyes.

  “Os, two years into this vacation of mine, I ran into a group of soldiers. They weren’t the worst, but they certainly weren’t the nicest people. They pushed me around a bit, but I could tell they weren’t about to kill me. But then their leader showed up, and things changed quite quickly.”

  I turn back onto my back and trace my scar. My thumb slides across my wrist and then down at an angle. It’s like a perfectly shaped 7. ”They called him Ajax. He was a large man, dark skin, dark brown eyes; he was a tall and incredibly dominant man. The way he stuck his chest out showed his great pride-- he wasn’t about to let some runaway say or do anything he didn’t want them to. “

  I pause and take in another huge breath. “First off, he wanted me to pledge my allegiance to the new country-- something I will never do, and the second thing he wanted to do was break me. I remember being picked up--he only had to use one arm-- and being carried off into this building. First he beat me, but as I hadn’t given up after a while, he brought my own knife on me. He cut this scar into my skin, thinking that I would die from blood loss, and then started to walk out.”

  “At first, I truly believed I was done for as well. I had it in my mind that I was finished for sure. I could hardly move, let alone get up and fight, but something incredibly powerful in me came alive-- something that had been sitting dormant in me since I lost my family. It was an overwhelming feeling of rage and sadness and pain.

  Somehow I managed to grab the knife that he had carelessly left on the floor and picked myself up off the ground.”

  I glance over at Os to make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep from my story yet; I can see him blink in anticipation.

  “Somehow, just somehow, I gained the courage and the strength to run and to plunge that knife into the low of his back. As I stumbled towards him, I remember feeling like I should just plunge it into his heart to make sure that he died, but then I remembered how he had left me, to die a slow and painful death. I wanted him to suffer just as much as I would.”

  “Then and there, I truly thought I was about to die, but after seeing how evil and pompous he was and how little mercy he had shown me, an innocent girl, this strange little fire ignited in me again and I knew I wouldn’t be dying any time soon. I wrapped up my wrist the best I could and I ran out the back door. From then on I did everything I possibly could to try and make sure that this world wouldn’t be controlled by people like this. I couldn’t just give up.”

  “Wow, you’ve got some balls.”

  I shoot him a confused look and he chuckles.

  “Not literally-- I mean you’ve got quite a bit of courage for such a little thing.”

  I laugh at my forgetfulness. I haven’t been around people enough to remember all of the slang.

  “Yeah, well if you’re going to survive in a world like this, you can’t be scared and you sure as hell can’t just sit back and watch the destruction.”

  “Amen,” he said with a smile. The smile quickly fades to a solemn look and he looks over to me.

  “Good night, Os,” I say.

  “That’s one hell of a bedtime story,” he jokes. “Good night.”

  As the silence occupies every open space around us, with only the wind entering and exiting in intervals, I can’t help but feel a little more affected by the pep talk I just gave. I had always thought of myself as being somewhat cowardly, someone who would just sit back and watch someone else stand in the limelight for something I could’ve done. Perhaps I truly have changed. Not only have I adapted to survive, but I’ve changed personality-wise as a person.

  It seems like every time that I’m hurt, a little piece of me is lost, and a new piece replaces it. I’m always changing. I wish I knew who I really was.

  Os’ nasally snoring permeates the silence and I close my eyes, hoping that sleep could capture me as fast as it did him.