The Start Of Something New

Epilogue

    I felt the sun beat down on my skin as I sat with my back resting against the outside prison wall.  It felt nice.  It was rare to experience anything "nice" in the world I lived in.  But I guess I hadn't ever known a world before this.

    I guess that's why Mom tells me not to take things for granted, and why Dad tells me to enjoy everything like it's your last sip, your last bite, your last step, or whatever it may be.  So it is typical for me to get excited over small gifts like a scavenged comic that has seen better days as a birthday present, or a few ripe oranges or apples on Christmas.  

    To me, it seems silly that we still celebrate these trivial things here.   None of us are really religious, or religious at all.  In fact, most of us just take God as a joke, or something to hold onto when the clouds roll in and the skies look dark.  And, to be honest, I doubt my birthday is even exact, or real at all, or if it was just a day that my parents made up because nobody around here seems to have a legit calender.

    But, to be honest, I've always wondered about the past.  About what it was like before all of this.  Most of the people in our group seem to know.  I've heard them tell stories; I've heard them laugh, cry, and reminisce wistfully about the times when they were young and their hair wasn't so gray and their skin wasn't so worn, and more importantly, when times were better.  It made me rather envious at times.  But I tried not to let it get under my skin.  Like Mom and Dad always tell me, I try not to be envious or greedy.  I try my best.   Honestly, I do.  So I've always respected the saying "curiosity killed the cat."  It's basically more of a rule than just a saying around here.  Especially because when the cat gets killed, it doesn't exactly stay dead.  

    I flip the page in the book I'm reading.  The story is about a pig who befriends a spider so the spider can help keep the pig alive.  I don't exactly understand the point of the story, but I like trying to learn about the world before it became infested by the dead.  My parents did their best to teach me how to read, but I occasionally stumble on a word or two and find myself tracing the letters with my index finger as I try to mentally sound it out.  I still sometimes wish we had a TV.  I've heard stories.  I've also heard stories about things like the internet, about airplanes, about so many things that I'll probably never get to see or experience for myself.  

    I look up from my book after a rather complex chapter and observe the yard.  We live in a prison, but to me, and from what I've heard about real prisons, it never really seemed like a prison.  Several people are tending to the lustrous garden.  Others are completing chores, such as clearing the fence or cooking meals.  A few are out hunting or on runs.  But most are just socializing.  Just being regular people, and doing what people do best.  I'm one of them.  Since I'm just barely 13 years old, my Mom and Dad are still wary on letting me go on runs or complete major chores.  I know that most of the kids here would do anything to be out with the adults scavenging the abandoned towns and cities, but I'm actually kind of glad for the times like these where I can just have time to sit and ponder and not have to worry about chores or walkers or supplies.  

    I sigh and return to my book after observing the hustle and bustle.  But I can't seem to get back into it now that my mind has strayed.  I close it and take time to look at the cover of my book.  I look at the title.  Charlotte's Web.  I still am not quite sure how to pronounce Charlotte, which is the name of the spider.  I look up at my name written in the upper right-hand corner of the book cover.  I remember that Dad had written it there when I had recieved the book as a birthday present a few years back.  Only now have I picked it up and began to take notice in it.  I read my name over again in my head.  I smile and close my eyes and raise my head up towards the sun and take in all the warmth it has to offer.  

    Flint.