Take Me Home • h. styles ✔

2 | Nostalgia

     

    The door swayed open to reveal someone my mind did not expect. With my hands firmly gripping the crowbar, I braced myself for her upcoming attack.

     Silence.

     All the noise of her previous batters on the door was replaced with an atmosphere of silence. There she was, lifelessly standing by the door, with her long auburn hair drooping down to cover her face and drips of dark red liquid simultaneously dribbling down her little arms and legs. On her right hand was something that I had not seen for a long time, looking at me intently with its unreal blue eyes. The scene in front of me reminded me of horror movies in the past, where the killer would just stand still at the entrance of your house, waiting for the perfect time to make his move. But this was no horror movie. I was living in reality. I was this hopeless boy band member as the last living man on earth, bounded by the fatal hostilities of the dead.

     I didn't know what to do. This was an exception to my general rule of killing every Infected, but I knew that I had no other choice.

     She dropped her rag doll in one split second and sprinted toward me. With all my strength and courage, I struck her on the head, causing her to fall to the floor. Her survival intuitions took control as she aggressively tried to get back up to have a piece of my flesh, but I didn't allow it to happen.

     "I'm sorry," I whispered to myself when I speared the crowbar into her delicate head. I kept my eyes closed as my hands continued to take the life out of the little girl.

    "Ah!"

     I screamed and carried on, giving her intense strikes and thrashes until her horrific cries of helplessness finally stopped. Hearing her demon-like wails somehow sent a pang of pain through my heart, but I chose to ignore them. The crowbar fell out of my hands, and I immediately closed the door, afraid that my attack would alarm the other Creatures. I let myself fall to the floor and hid from the gruesome scene in front of me.

    I just killed a little girl, an innocent little girl.

    In my five months of isolation from the frightening world of the Dead, I never had the chance to do what I had done. My mind was so focused on only one thing: the generalization to kill all of Them. I didn't even consider that there were also those young people. Those poor, innocent souls are deprived of the gift of life beforehand, only to have such a short amount of time to appreciate its beauty. But I suppose that tough times create tough people.

     It took me some time before I found the audacity to get myself up and look at the little girl's demise. She was lying motionless on my floor, a thick puddle of blood surging from her head. Her golden-brown hair, which I assumed was once beautiful, was now tinged with crimson stains from the violence, which I didn't know I had. I really felt terrible, even though I knew that I had done the right thing. It would be better if she left this sadistic world, where she could find the Heaven that she deserved.

     I gingerly lifted her from the floor and took her to the garage. This realization showed that my fear of having physical contact with the Creatures diminished. Maybe it was simply just the fact of adapting. I got used to living with Them every day in the new chapter of my life. 

      In a few minutes of her second death, the unpleasant reek of her body began to present itself. The smell was like an assortment of dead animals, dried blood with a hint of rotten eggs or something like that. It was pretty indescribable what it smelled like, but one thing's for sure: it's much worse than all of Zayn's perfumes combined.

     I placed her on the wooden table in the garage and decided to look. To be honest, I had never had the chance to see the Creature this close before. My eyes looked at the poor child's body until they saw something on her arm. It was a bracelet, meticulously sewn by creative hands, showing five letters of fine white cloth.