Dark Reality Box Set

Chapter One

Wind howls through the trees and rushes in the cracks of the cave, whistling shrilly. I bolt upright, startled. In the bleary moments just after waking from a deep sleep, I worry that they've found us. When my eyes adjust, I see that we are alone and our defenses have not been breached.

I sigh and feel the panic begin to leak from my body as my eyes sweep the familiar surroundings. The sun has not risen yet. Eerie, iridescent light trickles in with streams of air that carry the sweet, pungent zing of ozone. Sharp and fresh, the scent fills the cave. I wonder if my sister, June, smells it. It is one of her favorite scents, the way the atmosphere smells before it rains. But she is still asleep, her small body curled in a ball beside me. I am tempted to wake her. She does not like to miss any opportunity for joy, as joy is a rarity in our world. But she looks too serene to disturb. With her eyes closed and her features relaxed, she looks her age: eight years old. Her brow is not creased in concern. Her eyes are not narrowed as they usually are. Her face is smooth, innocent. She looks at peace. But I know that when she finally wakes, favorite scents or no favorite scents, peace will seep from her. Daylight will appear to age her. It always does.

I watch her for several moments. The familiar ache begins in my chest and quickly tightens my throat. I swallow hard, gulping in vain against the lump of dread stuck there. I don't know why I bother. It never moves. I doubt it will ever leave.

Thunder rumbles and shakes the cave's stone walls. Rain patters at first then drums loudly, the shriek of the wind accompanying it. A violent storm is underway. Still, June remains asleep, unbothered and unaware of it. I almost envy her.

Her eyelids flutter and a small smile tilts the corners of her mouth upward. She must be having a pleasant dream. I have forgotten what pleasant dreams are. My dreams are never pleasant. They are usually filled with dreadful images, and running, always running, without a destination in sight. The veil between nightmares and reality is thin. Some days, I have trouble distinguishing between the two. I would have ended it all long ago were it not for June.

June is my reason to live, the only reason I still live. She is my purpose. I exist to keep her safe, for she needs protection from many things in this world. It has been eight years since I've seen another human being that wasn't my father or my sister, June. I'm convinced we are the last human beings on what was once called planet Earth. I would never tell June that. I tell her every day that I believe someone will find us, that we will one day feel safe instead of scared all the time. But I know that is not true.

I force a smile on my face each day, in defiance of the truth, in defiance of the ache in my heart, and tell June that one day our lives will be filled with calm and order. It is a sharp contrast to the jumbled chaos of our day-to-day existence. Most days the madness of it all weighs on me so heavily I contemplate scouring the forest for berries my father warned me against, and filling my belly with them. Once, I came dangerously close to doing just that that.

A few weeks ago, I leaned against a tree trunk, mesmerized by the yellowish-orange fruit, and picked a handful. I brought my hand to my mouth and parted my lips, tears of relief slipping down my cheeks as I envisioned an end to it all, to the never-ending tightness in my throat, the constant worry, the suffering. I was about to eat several berries when my sister called out to me in the distance. She was cheering excitedly about catching her first squirrel, which turned out to be a skunk. I froze. The gravity of what I was about to do hit me like a fist to my gut. The berries fell between my fingers and dropped to the ground below. "In a minute, June," I yelled. I needed time to collect myself and breathe through the swell of emotion crashing over me. I had intended to take my life, had come dangerously close, in fact. The actuality of it staggered me. I was angry, scared, and grateful all at once. I sprang to my feet and paced for several moments, panting like a wild animal, before I calmed down enough to plaster a tight smile on my face. I returned to June and did not speak of what I almost did. She never asked, and I never told. I haven't done anything that reckless or stupid since. I don't have the luxury of doing such things.

Now, as I watch the rise and fall of June's chest as she takes deep, even breaths, I realize I was selfish weeks earlier. I am selfish every time I entertain the idea of ending the yawning pit of sadness inside me for good. She needs me. She would not survive without me, especially since our father died a little more than a year ago. He lived what I guess was a much longer-than-average life and passed away peacefully at the age of fifty. In the days before his death, I promised him we would stay safe, and I would keep June out of harm's way and never give up. He showed me how to do it, how to survive. The rest, namely living, is a bit more complicated.

I lie back down and close my eyes, remembering all my father taught me. I curve my body around June's sleeping form, comforted by her stillness. She does not feel me there. She continues to sleep. The storm rages outside. And the lump in my throat balloons to the point that I fear it will strangle me.

But in spite of the turmoil outside and the havoc rattling around inside me, exhaustion takes hold and pulls me on a dark and velvety tide. I sleep until the chirping of birds wakes me.

Sooty shadows still stretch across the cave I've called home for the last six years, but the light filtering in is considerably brighter. My stomach clenches violently, rumbling and growling, and I know it is time to hunt. Food has been scarce the last few days, leaving only small animals to trap and eat. I have only caught rats. They taste terrible, have very little meat on them, and always leave me feeling sick. I crave the filling sustenance of boart meat, but haven't seen one recently, not in the last three days, at least.

The thought of filling my stomach with tender, succulent boart flesh forces me to sit up. My back complains and my neck aches. Too little sleep and positioning myself oddly conspire against me. Regardless, I push myself to stand, shoving my palms and heels against the hard, rocky floor. I scrub my face with my hands, and then stretch before pulling out the logs that are lodged between the wall and the boulder at the mouth of the cave.

Six years ago, my father found a stone to cover the cave's opening. He spent months etching it, chipping away at its surface little by little, until it fit, rounded and able to roll bumpily. With an assortment of wood stuck all around it, the boulder conceals us, and keeps creatures of every kind from getting in. The beings that roam the land after dark are deadly. We cannot go out once the sun sets, not even in the event of an emergency. No human being can, should any exist. And together, the boulder and the logs safeguard us from Lurkers.

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