CROSS MY HEART // dystopian romance

2. ghost in a metal shelter

      Love is never what you want it to be. I am far too young to know that, but I do. Love, so far, has been about sacrifice. And loss.

Love is a burden, and I bear the weight of it. There once was a time when I was joyful and carefree, my fake red hair synonym of passion and youth. I was bouncing with hope and determination. I liked debates, and straight A's, and politics. I wanted to go to Yale after high school, be a criminologist. How useless it would have been, now that I think about it.

All I knew is that I wanted the world to change. And change, it did. But not in the way I expected, not in the way I wanted.

I was naive, and reckless, and foolish. I used to think the biggest ordeal I could go through was unrequited love and failed exams. These last three years made it a priority to prove me wrong.

Today, I wake up with my old friend ; guilt. It never leaves me. I shove off the thought of James' eyes, and the veiled expression on his face. I immediately go to get my daily cup of coffee.

I don't sip it by the window, I don't sip it by a breath-taking view or a cozy rainstorm. I savor it slowly, carefully, as I sit down at the cold white kitchen table. I don't read the journal, or check the news on my phone. I don't even read books anymore. The few books on the tiny shelf are dusty now, as I've read them all.

Instead, I just watch the surveillance camera on the main screen, the one that gives me a visual on the gate. The control center allows me to open it, but I rarely do. About every four months, I go out on a short scavenger hunt.

I slip a glance at the inventory list on the main screen, with a pinch in my stomach. When I check the food reserve, a pained sigh escapes my lips. I only have three cans left, and one galleon of water left. Despite all my efforts at rationing, I am forced to admit that I only have a week left of provisions.

I cannot allow my body to get any thinner, any weaker. Which means, while I'm still strong enough, I have to go out there. I have to open the ceiling gates for the first time in four months, and face what I've been hiding from.

A sea of Dead-Alives, corpses and deserted streets awaits me up there. I train all day, everyday, throw blades at self-made targets and practice my aim. It doesn't make me brave, or determined. It just means I'm scared.
My heart sinks in my chest as I truly realize : tomorrow, by the first light, I have to go out there again.

Alone.