Apocalypse

[ 11 ]

Sleep, once a comforting respite, has now become an enemy you avoid at all costs. Each time the weight of your heavy eyelids becomes unbearable, and you finally succumb to slumber, a terrifying, all-consuming darkness engulfs your mind like a voracious black hole. It's within this abyss, deep and unfathomable, that you're left alone with your tormenting thoughts. Your brother, his face etched deep into the recesses of your memory, is a constant presence. His eyes, his laugh, his voice - all imprinted on your mind like a haunting melody.

And then there's your mother. The man's chilling words echo in the caverns of your head. They are a cruel reminder of the gruesome end he claims she met - a knife plunged into her skull. But the tormenting question that gnaws at your sanity is - what if he lied? What if your mother had survived, only to be condemned to a fate worse than death? The thought of one day stumbling upon her, changed and unrecognisable, transformed into one of the mindless biters, is more terrifying than your darkest of nightmares. The possibility of seeing her among the swarm of the dead is an image so horrific, so unnerving, that it's something you can't even begin to comprehend or accept.

Eating has turned into a chore that you've begun to neglect often, too. At first, the intense, gnawing pangs of hunger feel as if a multitude of sharp knives are stabbing at your empty stomach. But, as time wears on, your body learns to adapt. The pain has subsided, and you are left with only mild discomfort. With food supplies dwindling at an alarming rate, you convince yourself that you're doing the right thing by not forcing yourself to eat. The only time you put something in your mouth is when the edges of your vision blur and dizziness washes over you.

Speaking has also become a luxury you deny yourself. Your mind is a battleground, scarred and scorched, where thoughts, emotions, and unspoken words swirl like a violent storm. Every time you muster the courage to part your lips, Simon's gaze lands on you. His eyes, piercing and intense, render you mute. Unable to withstand the weight of his gaze, the unspoken questions in his eyes, you turn away. Words get swallowed, lost in the dark cavern of your throat. You don't want to burden him with your despair. All the pain, all your suffering, is something you believe you must bear alone.

You find it impossible to fathom Simon's unyielding determination to keep alive the man responsible for your mother's death. The stranger remains bound with thick ropes to a rickety wooden chair, left in the dark basement with his mouth taped shut to prevent any cries for mercy. Each time you gather the courage to broach the topic, each instance when you muster the strength to insinuate that he should slice that jerk's throat, Simon assures you with a solemn nod that he will, but not yet. Simon tries to explain to you that he can't be making any harsh decisions. The man might still have vital information, and until you leave, Simon wants to keep him alive.

Simon's concern for your behaviour is palpable, much like a thick, ominous fog that clings to everything in its path. You can see it the way his eyes follow you around whenever you enter the room, the way he tiptoes around you as if you are made of glass, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. He chooses his words with great caution, contemplating his thoughts before uttering them. He wants to help you, to ease the burden of pain you carry on your shoulders, to provide a distraction that would make you focus on something else. Yet Simon is at a loss for what to do. You seem closed off to his attempts at communication; sometimes—he feels as if he is trying to talk with a brick wall.