Red. Everything within a 10ft radius of the dirt road was covered in a thick layer of red dust, including the piece of shit car that somehow qualified as my 16th birthday present.
Lena sighed as she prepped the incineration chamber, her janitor’s uniform hot in the stuffy room. This was the fourth dead baby this week, but it, she, had been different. She’d lived three days, instead of a little more than two. The scientists up top were examining her right now. Lena had had hope for the infant. Since The Break started, They hadn’t had a child live past a year in four years.
Hattie. The venturing into a new world. A soft whisper from exhausted lips that had consumed 3 too many shots. A moment of sentiment, from a mother, who was only so for a second. My name, Hattie, is warped. Twisted like the stories of the gods. It is a storm, raging beneath a calm facade. A story, that time will bury underneath the sands it holds so dear. My name is forgettable. My name is loud. But my name is not who I am. Only who I wish to be. It means power.