A Little Girl Called I

Used-To-Be Green

The wind slapped my face, reminding me of the dreadful task I was about to undertake.
Not that I was a professional spy or what's the word Bot 505 had said.... CSI? Crime Sweeper?
Whatever it was, it wasn't important.
The city was huge, sand rolling everywhere—a kingdom for camels and wolves.
All the cities' names were wiped clean when the pandemic hit. It rattled everyone.
I don't remember the details because I wasn't born before. The thin but wide gap that divided the world.
My brother did, and documented it in fine detail, with a voice-recorder, which sounded like it was underwater when the bot had played it. I had no idea how to fix a bot, let alone understand what was going on with this bundle of metal and wire that felt very alive. Its orange eyes glazed over me everyday, and they were warm—like the fire by a hearth.
My brother had said this city, where I am now sweeping used to be called Riyadh. It was an interesting name with a pretty sound. Then, he clarified, it was because of the greenery and its rolling fields and lively gardens—there must've been another meaning for the word because as I asses my view I couldn't spot a single green thing, except the wild seedless plants that grew randomly, poking out of the earth and the asphalt in defiance.
This used to be a kingdom. The sand dunes, the clay castles, the many mosques, so many, I could spot in one location number of mosques exceeding my fingers. Overlapped with awe—seeing a place alone is different from seeing it with someone.
Riyadh's ancient skyscraper with a gaping V looked down at me as I gazed up.
The entire world, all the countries, and skyscrapers like this were in scraps—barely staying upright.
But there was a certain beauty at witnessing the end of the world.
But what did I know of a world I had merely witnessed for a single decade. At least I exceeded the single digit system. I sighed in relief.
My map made a wrinkling cough as I swept it open, picking a strewn rock as a holder against the very light yet arrogant breeze.
I bit my lip as I saw how far the red line that I had marked stretched—
It wasn't ink or that odd liquid her brother mentioned, but the spilling oil from Bot 505–I hope he doesn't get offended that his blood was used as a marker, though.
There, up, sloping between one valley and another, a glaring X challenged me.
I was ready.
Not.