SAGE
My shirt was black. It was fresh and clean and it had a hole on its hem. I slid my fingers through the openings to kill the beating time. I was losing my mind, and my body responded.
Feed me, it pleaded. Give me food and give me water and give me what I need. You're alone, Sage. And even through your aching body telling you what's right for it, you refuse.
The windows to the house were boarded up with wood, leaving the area still and dim. I sat in the corner with my knife placed on the floor beside me, and I would occasionally glance down at it. It wasn't of pleasure or greed or anything between those lines. I would look at my knife and see the damage it had done on my skin.
I took my lower lip between my teeth as I stumbled to my feet. I held out a weak hand to the wall to catch my weight. My legs were numb. White lines invaded the skin and even red ones, too. But my body had no feeling when I would draw blood with my knife.
I tucked my knife into the back pocket of my jeans, regaining my balance. I felt lightheaded; I always did.
I shuffled across the living room, that was completely dark. I had no candles lit or flashlights to help me see, and the house was encased in its own bitter darkness.
I walked over to the window, grabbing the edge of the wood and began tearing it down. My arms were incredibly weak and took me multiple attempts until I tore the wood from the window.
A blinding beam hit my face, and I held my hand up to shield it. My eyes were squinted from the sun, and I hurried to yank the brown drapes over the glass pane to hide it away again.
I blinked a few times and rubbed at my eyes, startled. I had not seen the outside or been anywhere near it in well over two weeks. I stayed hidden in the same still, lonesome house, and seeing the sun was almost foreign.
I tried again, peaking my head through the curtains. The day was cold and grey like my eyes, and the tall, forest trees seemed to have darken as winter was approaching.
Is it winter? I wondered. Feels like it.
The zombies roamed the streets of the neighborhood. They each followed one another in small pools of the dead, and I cringed at the sight. My fingers stroked the warm fabric of the curtains as I gaped out the window, my chapped lips parted. A few of them were bent over on the pavement, blood and intestines stained the zombies' hands as they feasted like kings. I had given them the name biters, because the term zombie felt too unrealistic to be reality.
But it is reality, Sage, I reminded myself. There are zombies and they took over the world. And now you're outnumbered in a sea of death and pain and hardship and loneliness.
I frowned, shaking my head. I rarely often let myself look outside, because there was no scenery to comfort me or hope for my eyes to see. I would pull over the curtains and face reality. It was a brooding reminder of why I was so lost in my mind, without a family or a friend or a love to guide me through life's never-ending mapway to hell.
I pursed my lips and covered the drapes before I could gain the unwanted attention of another biter.
I leaned back against the dirty brown walls and hugged my arms to my body. The house had no air conditioning and I was settled in Atlanta. I shivered, and as I breathed out of my mouth, it blew between my lips as a foggy cloud, soon evaporating into the thin air.
I left a small crevice open to earn me minimal light to see. I walked over the living room and dodged littered food cans on the hardwood floors. I met up with the staircase and craned my neck to see its end, sighing.
If only you had the energy to climb stairs or face the dead or live your life. You're emotionless and have no purpose being here if you refuse to break free of your depression.
I placed a foot on the bottom step and hoisted myself up on it. My knees wobbled and I had to clutch the railing to keep myself steady. My stomach audaciously reminded me I needed to feed it, but I shook my head and closed my eyes, aching.
I then began climbing the spiral staircase to the Victorian style home. My hands dragged up the railing to support my fragile figure, and built up dust followed me up.
I made it to the second level, standing on the top step and the wood creaking below my shoes. I glanced left and right and scanned the hallway. Four bedrooms were to be counted, but the room felt as if it were smoothly spinning at my feet, and I couldn't think terribly straight. My tongue was dry and I swallowed.
I walked down the hallway, looking for a mirror. I needed to see myself.
I met up with the end of the hallway, where the bathroom was. I was hesitant to twist the knob and open the door, peeking my head inside. It was clear of any biters that I would not be able to defend myself with.
I slipped inside and closed the wooden door behind me, leaning my forehead against it and closing my eyes. My body was responding to my lack of food and water and happiness. It felt my depression, and the pain...hurt.
The bathroom was a small, encased cube. It was scattered and dirty and abandoned, with the common scent of death slipping through my lungs.
I wanted to turn around, but I knew there was a mirror. And I was dearly afraid to look into my reflection, and see what I could have been, and what I truly, brutally was.
I opened my eyes and turned around, walking toward the sink. My hands clasped either side of the cold, white sink, and I gazed off into my body with a horrid, stone face.
My hair was a smooth, sandy blonde, that fell in almost straight waves down my shoulders. My cheekbones were tight and my face was narrow. I had lips that were pale and nearly matched my own skin tone. They were cracked and dry and in need of moisture. The black long sleeve I wore circumscribed my body and made it narrow down into a smaller figure. My waist was thin and the hem to my shirt was low. I could easily see my collarbone, and as I ran a finger over the bone, it sunk through my skin and made it all too visible. My eyes were a piercing grey color, much like the moody scenery from outdoors.
I turned to my side and lifted my shirt slightly, staring at my stomach.
It was flat, caving in from my ribcage and intensifying the bones. When I sucked in a breath, my stomach sunk in and the width of my body was small.
No one would love you, my mind told me. Look at you. You're starved and hopeless and too much of a burden to carry. Being alone was your sacrificial choice, but you regret it. And there's no one left on the face of the earth to love your skin and bones and scars like you need them to.
I pulled my shirt down and turned to face the mirror again. I wore small, black leggings and the shirt was loose on my body. It slid to the side and hardly stayed put on my shoulder. I wore converse and my skin was light, because I was never out to get any sun on my sensitive skin.
Dirt tattered the light, soft complexion of my face. I looked tired and drained and lost and incomplete.
The scars running up my arms gave off a reflection from the circular mirror, and my face cringed. My fingers shook as I went down to touch them, but abruptly stopped and looked back to the mirror.
I was short and thin. I was under starvation, but it wasn't of choice.
I had zero appetite and had minimal food to begin with. If I could live life without eating, I surely would. And it had been three days since I had gotten up to eat dry, stale imperishables. The house I was in was completely empty of food, as it lasted me three months until the supply ran out.
I stared into my own eyes longingly, quickly seeing the image of my father.
I stumbled backward a bit, my mouth widening. I slowly crept back toward the mirror, and my breaths grew hitched as I saw flashing images of my brutalities and past.
For moments, I saw my mother's dirty, blonde hair, and touched my own and felt her skin. My dad's cheekbones reflected off of my own, and I cupped my cheeks and longed to feel him.
"You're okay, my dear. It's scary out there, I know it is. But you're stronger than those monsters. You're a beautiful, strong, independent lady. Just as I raised you to be."
"Stop," I whispered.
My breathing hitched and my pupils dilated, the longer I stared at myself.
"Is cutting your skin and starving your body going to solve anything? I thought you were better than this, Sage. We're the hospital. We're here to be selfless and save lives. Taking your own is pitiful. Absolutely pitiful."
My parent's voices taunted the capacity of my brain, and I grabbed my head and dug my fingers through my hair.
"Stop!" I yelled.
I quickly saw my mother and father's disapproving faces once more, before my body filled with rage and pity as I reached my breaking point.
I wished not to see my cowardly face again. My hands clenched into fists as I brought them back, colliding with the glass of the mirror forcefully.
The mirror shattered into hundreds of pieces, each shimmering down my body and hitting the ground at my feet.
I took a step back and let my chest rise and fall intensely, looking all around me. There was glass littered everywhere you could glance, and my eyes edged near tears. I looked down to my hands. My knuckles were cut from the glass, and dark, warm blood oozed down my palm. My hands shook outrageously and I actually felt the pain of my cuts.
My body felt limp as I fell backward, hitting my bottom on the floor.
I held my hands together and didn't bother to clean up the blood trickling down my skin. I grabbed my head and closed my eyes, and I felt single years dribble down my cheek.
"I'm sorry..." I whispered.
My heart pained. And my body was always aching, but this was of a different meaning. My body was aching because of actual regret of my previous actions, and of the wish to have someone to love my scars, instead of marking them.
But who would love a depressed, broken fool like you?
➸➸➸
I awoke to a crash from downstairs.
My head jolted up and I stirred around slightly, weakly wiping my eyes. Blood rubbed off of my skin, and the brooding pain flushed over and I frowned. I had fallen asleep on the ground to the bathroom, and everytime I moved my body, it was pierced by small, broken shards of glass. I whimpered.
Another noise sounded, although it was sworn to be...footsteps. Loud, audible, careless footsteps.
My lips pursed together and I went into a mute to hear closer. I heard rummaging from the kitchen, and few low, raspy grunts.
My heart thudded against my ribcage as I gripped the bathtub I was leaning against tightly, in a panic.
Another survivor, I thought. They could have the food or supplies to heal your wounded body. Get the hell up, grab your knife and do what you have to do in this crude world. Sacrifice.
I stood up, wiping the small glass pieces from my legs. I winced in pain and bit the inside of my cheek to keep quiet. I walked over the mess I created and wiped the dried blood from my knuckles and onto my dark shirt.
I held the doorknob with my left hand, using my right to slip my knife from my back pocket. I held the blade in my trembling hands and opened the bathroom door, slithering out and into the hallway.
I pressed my back against the wall and closed my eyes, listening.
The intruder was downstairs in the kitchen, and I mentally battled myself whether or not I was capable of killing the survivor without being the one lying on the ground dead and cold.
I pressed my lips together as I crept down the hallway, meeting up with the top of the staircase. I then took my time creeping down the stairs. The wood to the stairs would creak below my feet, and I cringed, biting my lip.
It felt as if an eternity before I stood on top of the final step.
I peeked over the corner and slipped my gaze through the living room and into the kitchen. I saw a tall, broad figure, and I whimpered and his lower behind the wall.
It was a boy, and his back was facing me. He wore a tainted blue flannel and a sheriff hat fitted on his head. The boy patted around the empty cabinets and muttered, "fuck," clearly ashamed to not find any food for his body.
I rushed over the kitchen wall and pressed my back against it, and was shocked to go unnoticed by the boy.
He began digging through his bag, that was hoisted on the countertops.
The knife in my hands was calling my name, and I glanced down at my hands, shaking my head.
End it here, I told myself. This boy is of none of your concern. You need what he has to survive, even if that means ending his life with your own, vile hands. In a world like this, you shouldn't feel guilt for killing. Its the sacrifices you have to make, Sage. Take your knife and send it through the back of his head, before you can fall for the boy like you know you shouldn't allow yourself to.
I took my lip between my teeth, nodding. Tucking a strand of light hair behind my ear, I crept away from the wall and into the kitchen.
His back was facing me as he continued to look through the cabinets. I gripped my knife and edged toward the boy.
I raised my hand, just as I was inches from his body. My knife was in my hands and I was ready to slice it through his skin, but something stopped me.
The boy quickly spun around, and I felt his long, strong fingers grip my wrist.
The knife was only centimeters away from plunging through his chest, but he held onto my hand and stopped the dagger from killing him.
His jaw clenched, and his fingers held harsher on my hands, cutting off circulation.
He then pulled the knife from my hands and took it into his own. The boy then forcefully pushed my body backward, and I choked out a whimper as I tried to fight back. My back was then crashed against the black refrigerator, the boy pinning me onto it. He was tall and towered over my trembling body.
"Get off of me," I begged, trying to push him away and off my body.
He took my knife and pressed it against my neck, as a warning. His teeth were chiseling and I could hear the collision, and I cried out as the blade was near digging through my neck.
I looked into his eyes, and felt wrong to admire them. They were a crisp, oceanic shade of blue, and I gulped down while looking at them. Although they darkened in anger as he held my thin body harshly, and every futile attempt to wriggle from his grasp was absolutely pathetic.
His dark, brown hair shagged over his blue eyes, and the sheriff hat fitted on his head and darkened his face.
"Please..." I whispered, pulling on his hands to break free of my neck.
His eyes were dark and merciless, but he used them to drag down my body briefly. He gazed into my grey eyes and stayed put in this longing position, and his face softened slightly, but his grip did not.
His eyes curiously looked at the scars littering my soft skin, frowning.
And although the knife was pressed against my throat and he held me back from saving myself, he continued to look at me.
Please, I begged him. You're looking at an empty girl, in an empty house with an empty soul. Killing her will do her the same justice as keeping her, so do what you please. You're looking at a wounded soldier, in a battle with her own wicked mind. Help her.
The boy's face was hot and sweaty and I felt his scorching breath against my face as he stared at me, angry.
But he also looked sorry for me.
You are wounded. And maybe he is, too.