End of the World

As I walk down the disheveled sidewalk, I feel the cold breeze brush upon my face. I keep my head down as I walk alone in the silent night. It’s late and I know I will have to sneak myself back into the house. I feel light-headed and my stomach is twisting. Distorted, blurry silhouettes with vague gleams of light are all I see. I rely on my left eye to lead me home. Blind in my other eye, it swells with throbs like a heartbeat. 

No stores are open and there are no cars to pass by. Only the company of corpses lay around me. My legs are straining to carry me and my back aches to hold me up. The wind dries my skin and my cheeks become tight and sore. The bruises and slices in my skin light fire from the gentlest touch. I inch closer and closer to home. My neighbors all lay dead in their beds. I can hear the few surviving soldiers wandering endlessly in their aching, experimented hearts; their sorrowful cries echo relentlessly. My porch light stands alone and I can see the light shining through my parents’ bedroom. I watch their silhouettes' pace.