Who We Were | Book One

5. Not One of Them

Soft darkness crowded the room. The morning light was subtle through the gap splitting the curtains. 

Twisting my body, I read the clock that sat on my bedside table. It still worked and read 5:30 AM. I'd somehow slept through the night, and yet, I was far from feeling rested. My eyes, which were still red and sore, were the only physical thing revealing the deep pit I felt in my chest. I felt nothing but wholly and utterly empty.

Stretching my neck, I looked around the room. My eyes were still adjusting to the low light as I struggled to make out the furniture-like shapes. My wooden desk sat in the corner of the room, the silhouette of the dark office chair shadowing the piles of letters I hadn't yet opened.

A thud came from downstairs and my eyes jolted wide. 

The reactions of my body were instantaneous; my heart hammered faster and my brain began to short-circuit with the thoughts that cascaded their way through. I'd shut the front door when I came in, I knew that, but the fear that paralysed my muscles had me thinking otherwise. 

The distant sound of birds chirping found their way into the room, ringing out like an alarm. A chair scraped against the tiles in the kitchen below and my suspicions were confirmed, my senses heightened a thousand times over. 

I was alert, and yet, my body would not respond to the movements I willed as the stairs began to scream.

The bedroom door wasn't closed, but I'd huddled into myself that I couldn't see past the slit that bridged the gap between the room and the hallway. I forced my fingers to close around the silver metal of the gun which lay in front of me, but I could only fumble with the handle as a layer of sweat coated my palms. 

The rhythmic, hollow thud of my heart was loud in my ears, drowning out the creaks of the staircase which were fast approaching. I lifted the weapon to the door, my index finger hovering over the trigger.

It wasn't the hinges to my bedroom door that cried out, it was my parent's room. The echoing of metal ran through the house and I could picture the door slamming against the radiator behind it. 

In a moment, I felt uneasy. I couldn't sit back and allow someone to walk through my home, picking whatever they wanted. I willed my body to move towards my door, resting my fingers against the wood.

"Hey!" I said, the gun raised as I stepped out into the hallway.

A boy no older than I stood in the doorframe of my parent's room, a large jet- black gun held in front of his chest. 

"Put it down," he ordered, locking eyes with the barrel I was aiming at his head. "I'm not one of them." 

His voice was firm with no trace of hesitation, a drastic change from the crackling voices I'd become so accustomed to. The weapon was trained on me, unwavering with the firm grip he held around it. He took a step forward and I raised my arm higher, my index finger twitching as I followed his movements.

"Leave," I said through the lump in my throat.

"I can't do that," he shook his head. "There's a herd out there."

"That's not my problem." My fingers clenched around the metal. "Get out of my house." 

His eyes commanded my attention. They held flecks of deep brown which glistened to a rich caramel as the soft orange glow streamed into the hall. He squinted as he looked towards me, small thread-like shadows cast against the dark circles which were lined underneath his eyes. 

"Get out," I repeated.

"I know you're not going to shoot me with that," he stated, holding the gun in one hand as he lowered it to his side.