The petals on the marigold flower are starting to fall off. The edges are turning brown and crispy to the touch. The flower’s death means that Fabien should be arriving any day.
By Quinn Doyle3 years ago in Fiction
Water pelts my face, the crashing waves drenching me as they soar over me. The sky is pitch black, and I can’t see any stars through the downpour. Lightning strikes, giving me a moment of visibility.
I hear my window creak as the wood slides against the frame, signaling it’s being opened. I roll over in my bed to face the window. A cool breeze enters the room, dancing across my face and giving me chills.
My eyes feel as if they weigh one hundred pounds. I pry them open to reveal the same dingy room I’ve been trapped in for the past few weeks. If you can even call it a room; it’s more like a prison cell.
The wind sings as it flows through the cracks and holes in the roof. The walls seem to sway slightly with the gusts, but not enough to make me worry. This old barn will hold up, it always has.
It’s been 528 days since the virus started. It changed the world, and not for the better. It wiped out nearly 90% of the world’s population, and those that didn’t die from it, succumbed to it.