We tend to take a lot of things for granted, even today - when the world has gone all to hell and the dead have risen again to consume us. Back before everything happened, when the military failed and they... they bombed the cities, we lived in a different reality, one that seems almost fantastical now even though it had its problems. I remember waking up to the sound of birds chirping outside my window, or that Leja would be whining and complaining about having to go to school; the warmth of the sun gently nudging me out of sleep as I had to get up and prepare for the day. There was this sense of security, a belief that tomorrow would be just like today, predictable and stable.
We had luxuries that we didn't even realize were luxuries at the time. Like running water. I mean, can you imagine? You turn a knob and clean water flows out, effortlessly. We used to waste it, let it run while we brushed our teeth or took long showers just because we could. Now, every drop is precious, scavenged from rain barrels or murky streams, boiled and filtered until it's safe to drink. The same with food; grocery stores packed to the brim with fresh produce, meats neatly packaged on Styrofoam trays, aisles upon aisles of snacks and canned goods. We never worried about where our next meal would come from. Now, we scavenge abandoned homes and overrun gardens, praying that the best and most tasty meal I can get is some highly syruped cat food.
Sometimes I wonder if we'll ever get back to that place, if we'll ever rebuild what we've lost. But then I look around at the broken streets, the crumbling buildings, the ever-present threat of the dead, and I'm not so sure. Mamá says that there has to be a life or a place out there for us... but I know that she really means me and Alejandra. Ever since Juliana died last winter... she... she hasn't been the same. She rarely eats, rarely sleeps, and I catch her glancing both at me and Alejandra every so often in a way that sends a pit down my throat. I can hear her crying sometimes at night; she tries to be silent, but it's enough for me to hear - enough so that I have to bring Alejandra close and cover her ears so she doesn't have to feel sad that her mother is giving up hope.
I miss Juliana too. Her laughter used to fill the house, her energy was so contagious and honestly got on my nerves sometimes, Papá's too - especially with all the trouble that she got in with dudes. Now, the silence that hangs heavy in her absence is a constant reminder of all we've lost. I try to remember the best of her, all the good times and the stupid teenage shit that she always did; not... not when I had to put her down. But I just... I just can't shake away the image of her face, the snarling and the growling, the... the bullet hole in her head. I... I don't want to remember her like that.
Mom tries to hide her pain, but I see it in the way her eyes betray her smile, in the way her hands tremble as she cooks whatever meager meal we've managed to scrounge up. I know she's holding on for us, for me and Alejandra. She's trying to be strong, to keep us safe in this unforgiving world. But I can't shake this feeling of helplessness and maybe a bit of anger, this notion that no matter how hard we try it'll never be enough. That we'll never find that elusive sanctuary she dreams of, where we can finally rest without fear of the dead knocking at our door.
I try to be strong for my sister, to shield her from the harsh realities of our new existence. But it's been almost seven months - or maybe eight - and she's not a child anymore, not really. She sees the pain etched into every line of Mom's face, hears the desperation in her voice when she talks about finding a place to call home. And I know it weighs on her, just as it weighs on me.
But unlike her, I can't give up. She's right about one thing, that there is a home out there for us - a place where all THREE of us can have a life. We deserve more than just survival; we deserve a chance, Alejandra deserves a chance, one filled with joy and laughter instead of fear and sorrow. And when we finally do, when we stand together in a place where we can truly belong, it'll be worth every hardship we endured along the way.