It was time to venture out again. He didn’t particularly enjoy these journeys, but at least they were a reason to escape the monotony that was his home life and the misery that came alongside it. The world outside had grown wild and strange, like a painting where the colours had bled off the canvas, pooling into something unrecognisable. He stood for a moment in the doorway, listening to the wind scrape against the dull steel, waiting for the time to feel right. But it never did. He reached for his woollen hat and pulled it over his head, savouring the momentary warmth that it brought. He only had two left; he needed to be more careful with them if he was going to survive the long winter ahead. They were fragile things in a world that consumed everything. He picked up his supply bag, strapped on his mask, and began the lengthy process of unlocking the bolted steel door. Each bolt released with a deep, metallic groan, a sound that echoed through the hollow halls of his home. Eventually, the door swung open with a reluctant creak, unleashing the sharp bite of the outside frost. A few moments later he made his way down the concrete steps and out into the wilderness.
The cold slapped him across the face. It wasn’t the kind of cold you prepared for; it was a living, writhing thing that wrapped itself around you, slipping into your joints like a virus. He shivered and braced himself for what was about to come. Which voice would speak to him today, he wondered.
The sky overhead was a faded bruise, greys and purples piercing through the many clouds. The streets beneath his feet, cracked and broken, acted as rivers of dirt winding through skeletal buildings. The snow, once white, had taken on the hues of decay, stained yellow and brown from the rot beneath. As he moved, he felt the wind whisper in his ears. He waited for one of the familiar auras to fill his head. He hoped that it would be The Storyteller, regaling him with tales of a long forgotten era, of a time when hope and joy still existed in the world. The trivial matters on which people used to be so focused amused him slightly. So much strife was caused by such small, meaningless happenings. He wished that the world could be like that once again. Those stories were the last shred of beauty, the last pieces of a planet that had once made sense.
Or perhaps he would be joined by The Old Friends. He always enjoyed reminiscing about the past, about the before time, and the escapades that they used to get up to. The thought of their voices filled him with a warmth that contrasted the bitter air. The laughter, the adventures they’d once shared, all now just wisps of memory, but still, they were something. Reminders of the former joys in life helped him to keep going. The plans to reconnect with each other and relive these times provided him with a shred of hope and positivity, even if he knew that they would never come to fruition.
Instead it was the musical whispers of The Bard that filled his head. The verses of joy and sorrow, of love and loss were always a welcome guest on his travels. The music, vibrant and raw, rose up, filling the desolate streets around him with renewed life. As the familiar melodies lifted his spirits he strode on with fervour towards his destination, his feet crunching against the snow like a dance. For a moment he almost felt alive.
The buildings around him loomed high and jagged, the remnants of what once had been humanity’s triumphs were now twisted into monuments of defeat. Vines, dark and brittle, crawled up their walls, fighting for space among the many cracks. The streets were mostly empty nowadays, although he did occasionally see another survivor on his journeys. He had learned long ago not to interact with them. On the surface, they appeared to be no different to him, just another hollow-eyed husk drifting through this ruin like a ghost. However, they were not the same. When approached, they spoke in strange tongues that he could not comprehend, and when he failed to respond, they often became frustrated, even aggressive. It wasn’t his fault that the world had split them apart. It was much safer to give them a wide berth and keep to himself. He could sense their eyes glaring at him, judging him for the lack of interaction, but he kept his head down and avoided any conflict. He moved through the wreckage with careful steps, the icy ground crunching beneath his boots.
He could see the luminous green glow of the supply cache against the horizon, blinking like an alien beacon, casting an eerie light across the snow. He was nearing the end of his journey. Just as he began to believe that he would complete his task without incident, the reassuring ballad of The Bard came to an abrupt halt. He had known that it was inevitable, but he couldn’t help but hope that it would not come to pass. He stopped in his tracks, his breath hanging in the air like a cloud of smoke as he waited for the next voice to speak to him. He prayed that he would hear the voice of The Sister, sharing her tales of life in a far-off land, where the air was warm and where the seas still glittered blue. A world that, despite all of its differences, was eerily similar to the one where he found himself isolated. But alas, this was not the voice that greeted him. The voice of The Mother spoke.
Her voice was sharp, slicing through his thoughts before he could even brace himself. It stung, each word an accusation, each sentence another cut of the blade. He knew how to deal with the situation. As she rambled on he gave the expected one-word answers, agreeing or showing support where necessary, never saying too much. He was careful with his words, but a mistake was inevitable. He wasn’t sure what he had done wrong, he thought that his answers had all been acceptable, but evidently they were not. The tirade began, loud and unrelenting, louder than even the howling wind that clawed at his skin and froze his breath.
He tried not to listen, but the viciousness of the berating pierced his defences. The world around him blurred, the colours of the sky and snow bleeding together, spinning into a cacophony of greys and whites. What had been a pleasant journey was now becoming a nightmare. He gritted his teeth, clenched his hands into balled fists inside his gloves, and bore the brunt of the attack.
He wasn’t sure how long the whole ordeal lasted, but it was with relief that he welcomed the silence that surrounded him once the voice of The Mother departed. His head throbbed, but the world slowly came back into focus. He was so close to his destination. He took a moment to regain his composure, then continued towards the green beacon that marked his goal.
As he stumbled into the bastion of hope, he took in his surroundings. The piles of rations were of no interest to him. He pushed past the others who had been attracted by the sanctuary, hardly noticing their presence. His eyes scanned the room until he found what he had been looking for. Overwhelmed with relief, he fell to his knees. He had found it, the golden prize. He lifted the crate of liquid ambrosia in his hands, his fingers trembling as they closed around the neck of one of the bottles.
This would be enough to dull the misery and emptiness for another week.
D. J. Bates is a new writer who is a proud part of the queer community. They have no previously published works and welcome the opportunity to take their first steps into the world of writing.