Oh How the Old Decay’s

Although nothing had been safe since the first decay, the last one felt different. As if everything was about to be tied up into a brilliant ending. One filled with sunshine and flowers that would go for millions given the current state of the soil. Sirens rang through the streets. The sirens from years before struck each survivor. Panic of it being a trap and the hope of it being real. Opposing thoughts battled inside those the decay couldn't eradicate. Or maybe wouldn’t is a better term. The leftover families spared all had a seemingly random encounter with a young girl asking for help to find her sister through a picture on one half of a broken locket a couple of weeks before the first decay had begun. Not that anyone could recall the events leading up to the first decay. Years had gone by since anyone dared to visit others in fear that they would be dead from the decay, but now things were different. In front of them, something glimmered and shone so bright it leaked into every home and woke every parent and child. The light seeped into every dark corner of their body. Every crevice. Red, white, and blue lights, accompanied by those damn sirens. So many had cursed at them before for slowing them down on their way to and from work. It shone like the sun that hadn’t been out in years due to the constant dust from wind storms. Most adults chose to ignore it, but the children had other plans. They had grabbed their nicest coats and shoes with the least amount of holes and attempted to escape the smothering grasps of their parents. The children had seen their parents worried before, but nothing like this. They were running through houses, finding weapons, and hiding food. For the teens around for the first decay, this scene was all too familiar. It filled them with a similar feeling of dread that their parents were feeling. But the small children did not run. They did not shout. They were calm. Which was odd for small children. They slowly peeled off their nicest coats and shoes with the least amount of holes and skipped back to their rooms in silence. The young children knew they would be fine. There was no sign saying small children will be fine, but they knew they would be. Unfortunately, this feeling didn't spread to the parents. They knew something was off after the first order. Everyone over the age of 18 was to exit their house. Immediately. The illusion that they could hide from it, maybe shelter the children for just a few more years, was shattered by a sound so deafening it froze whoever heard it. A knock. The knock was terrifying. The knock was not real. The knock could not be real. The knock had no right to be real. The knock was in no way an invitation to barge into homes and gather the defensive adults. The knock was bad. That was all the children could gather from the knock. To the teens, the knock was awful. It was parents reaching for them only to have them ripped away moments before hands met. It was empty. All the fights and arguments suddenly weren’t worth it anymore. Typically headstrong teenagers, reduced to crying children. Somehow a simple sound had become more anxiety-inducing than anything else they had seen or heard during the decay. Small children left to comfort the older siblings, uncertain of what had sent them into such a state. If they did, they wouldn’t be such small children anymore. The innocence their parents sheltered them with would be ripped away just as their parents were. They would be crushed under a world so unforgiving and cruel that it couldn’t stand the sight of people being happy. The officers seemed happy. Their smile as they took the adults from houses and tore families apart will forever haunt the brains of every teen and child alike. Their teeth were a little too pointed. Their lips were a little too wide. The moments that followed were silent. Nothing. Empty. Quiet. Emilie had always hated quiet. They had been scared over the years into quiet, but they never liked it. It was too foreboding, which was a word her mother had taught her during one of their homeschooling lessons. Emilie had just turned six when the first decay hit, though her parents had always just called it the delay since that was how Emilie had pronounced it when she first heard about it. To Emilie, the decay changed almost nothing. They were homeschooled before, with little to no friends. They were always more into art and would rather die from the decay than be caught playing soccer. The decay had seemed like a family bonding time to young Emilie, and it was for a while. Just her parents, Emilie, and her younger brother George. Emilie had liked it when it was like that. She had everything she wanted until she didn’t. While everyone was fearful of the decay taking them too early, her mother faced a different struggle. Cancer. It had become such an impossible idea until it invaded her life. They planned to start chemo a week after the decay began. Her mom would have been fine. Her mom should have been fine. All her mom needed was a couple of treatments. The doctors were hopeful. Something Emilie had lacked weeks following the death of her mother. Emilie was seven at the time she helped her father bury her mother. After her mom had died, her father did not cry or give up. He taught Emilie how to grow vegetables, cook for her and George, and even handle periods when the time came. Which, looking back, should have been her first clue that her father didn't plan on sticking around. Emilie learned how to fix leaks, boil water, and take care of her family. She loved it. The feeling of helping others after feeling so helpless with her mom gave her a sense of purpose. Had Emilie missed out on being a child? In most ways, she had. The world handed out aimless punishments, and it didn’t discriminate based on age. Emilie was just an unlucky winner. Twice. When Emilie had turned ten, her father had a present for her, with a box and a bow. A weird feeling had passed through Emilie when she had seen that box, one she could later describe as dread. When she opened it, two things had laid inside a velvet box and a book. The velvet, dusty and matted, was a dark red. Mothers favorite. The bittersweet thought did not linger as she grabbed the leather-bound book. It seemed homemade and well-loved. She flipped through a few pages to discover it was like a recipe book for life. A list of common to complex tasks littered that page. Her father had even included how to change oil in hopes that sometime after he was gone, the world would return to normal, and Emilie would get to drive the car that sat in their garage, completely out of gas. Emilie had smiled and bit back tears as she read, which she later would realize was his suicide note. His final goodbye to son and daughter before the grief that came from losing his one overtook him. It wasn’t sudden; Emilie knew that. She had heard the wails from the backyard when she should have been sleeping. She noticed the bags under his eyes. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes. She had heard the bang that closed his eyes. He had fallen into a pre-dug grave, and the only thing left for Emilie to do was bury him. For years Emilie didn't dare even look in the velvet box, too angry at her parents for leaving her and George. It wasn’t until she turned 12 did she open it. The box had fit neatly in her hand and was almost like another birthday gift if you count the paper bracelet George gave her. Inside laid half a locket. Heart in shape, small in size, and gold in color. The pendant appeared to have been snapped at its hinges. However, the young girl glued to the inside of the necklace was the striking part. She would have mistaken it for her mom had it not been for the blonde hair. Emilie didn’t have much time to think about it as the knock hit her door. She didn't recall ever hearing a knock before. Maybe when she was younger, not that she could remember it. She didn't have time to react when the officer popped the bubble of her peaceful life. They turned over cabinets and chairs. Desks and doors. They only stopped once they had found the graves. They left without even muttering an apology for scaring young George. They were silent. The town was silent. Empty. Quiet. It wasn’t quiet, quiet either. Instead, deafening. The kind where you can’t hear anything no matter how hard you try. It was an uncomfortable quiet. The noise that followed was even more uncomfortable. Shots. Most children were used to hearing them after years of their parents fending off scavengers and looters, but none of them ever thought they would see their parents on the other side of that gun. Teens screamed and wept as young children covered their ears. Screams shredded the silence that had captivated them. To Emilie, the shots didn’t affect her. To the others, it was life-ending. Not everyone had the fortune of learning what Emilie had. They couldn’t cook or clean; some couldn’t even read. Now they wished they couldn’t hear. The silence that followed the shots was louder than the one that began them. It was heavy and weighed and uncomfortably settled across them. Maybe it would be better this way. No parents scream at them over simple things. No abuse. No neglect. No more raising children to believe in only what they believed. After all, no one came to the earth racist or homophobic. That was all taught by adults. Taxes and wars were all adults. Children didn't make those, yet they suffered for them. It was obvious the soil was dying long before the decay. Life would be better after the decay, despite how it currently appeared. Strong leaders would emerge and fix the world for the younger ones. Make better laws, better homes, better lives. The young girl looking for her sister from years ago was now a young woman. Time had seemed to affect her differently. She had done her job. She had fixed it for her nephew and niece. Emilie stepped out of the house, the necklace clasped around her neck; the young woman smiled. She knew she had left the world in good hands. Then, with a bang, Emilie’s aunt finished her final task. It was time to see her sister.