uhhhh idk
Rain drips down the cracked window in front of me. I stare at the little bead of water falling down the glass for a few minutes, and then silently, solemnly turn to my siblings. My thirteen-year-old sister rocking my infant brother in her arms; their cheeks hollow, sucked in stomachs from malnutrition. My brother still has his baby fat, but just barely.
Me? I'm Stephanie, fifteen years old. Hollow. Broken. Like the window. My mom and dad went on a business trip a couple months before the outbreak. Never came back. It's safe to assume they're dead now, I guess..
I look down at my cold fingers. The only reason we still have this house, this one source of protection, is because the officials, the tax collectors, died a long time ago. No one has replaced them yet. Why bother? The pandemic took out about 85% of the population here on earth. We, the surviving 15%, must make do with what we have. No one cares about taxes when you have to struggle to put food on the table.. to be happy.
My grandfather, the only family I had besides my siblings, died a few weeks ago. 18 days ago, to be exact. From a heart attack. No one could help him. We just sat there, crying, holding him, watching the light go out of his eyes. He used to say to me, "Steph, when I die, you're going to have to take care of LaSondra and Timmy. Promise me you'll take care of them." Then I would say, "Of course, Pop. I love you." And he'd say, "I love you too," and wrap me in a big hug and everything would be A-OK. It was like our little routine. Something we did each day. To be able to feel safe once more.
But it's not okay now. And I'm in charge.
I don't have the urge to move; I just sit there. Sometimes I blink in and out of reality; I momentarily forget everything around me, and I'm jerked back by Tim's little baby cries, or Sondra's lullabies. Sondra has a nice voice. Everyone assumed she would be a singer someday. Now? That opportunity has been torn away, by the pandemic. The pandemic has torn almost everything away from us.
I drum my thin fingers on my knees. Then I lean back in my chair and doze off. I forget the pandemic, the food shortage, the sickness, everything. But I'm sucked back into it by Timmy, who's crying. Yet again. It's not his fault; babies cry. But it's just so annoying because crying doesn't help the situation. Neither does sitting here. But I don't feel like doing anything else. I actually haven't felt like doing anything else since Pop died.
LaSondra has dark circles under her eyes. Her face is pale and sunken. She gently sets Tim down on our ripped leather sofa and goes to the small desk near my chair where we keep our prized possessions. No one has stolen them yet for fear of illness or contamination.
Sondra carefully opens one of the drawers and takes out a small container of food. It's a plastic bag. Weeks before the pandemic happened, officials passed out small food containers to ration during the virus outbreak, if it happened. I'm lucky that they passed these bags out. These small things are what keep us going each day.
There are about what, six bags in total left in the drawer. Sondra has been careful, rationing them every day. She took leadership for her elective this year in middle school. I made fun of her, but now I'm grateful. At least someone knows how to survive.. Sometimes I feel like she's the oldest, and I'm a baby like Tim, just a burden.
LaSondra opens the bag and takes a small pellet out of it. She eats it slowly, nibbling on the edges before chewing the entire thing and swallowing. She broke all the bread pieces into tiny pellets so it'd be easier to ration. Now, she takes a second one for me and, after sealing the bag shut, gives me the food. I take it gratefully and eat it as fast as I can. My stomach's been rumbling for the past hour or so.
After putting the bag away, she takes a sort of orange paste from another drawer. This is for Tim. Since he's a baby, he certainly can't chew a bread pellet like me or Sondra. Instead, he eats what I call "Sondra's Exquisite Carrot Paste For the Most Important Babies". Of course, it's a joke. Sondra simply takes one of our precious carrots from the garden in the house and grinds it into a fine paste. We only have a couple carrots left in the garden. We also grow radishes and potatoes sometimes, but it's quite hard, so mostly it's just carrots.
To make it easier to handle, she puts the carrot paste into our old ration bags and makes a pipette as to squeeze out a little food for my brother to eat. I know what you're thinking: I don't do much. And it's true. But I feel useless anyways. I don't bother. Feel free to hate on me.
Sondra squirts some onto her finger and gives it to Tim to eat on a platter. It's plastic and it was on sale a few years ago. Perfect for a clumsy baby who is prone to breaking things.
Finally, I stand up and stretch. I do this a few times a day. Sondra has gone from being excited when I do this to disappointed and sad. She looks at me with reproachful eyes but says nothing. She simply walks back to the desk, puts the food away, and goes back to rocking Tim.
Meanwhile, I feel frustration. Does she not realize how hard Pop's death hit me? I was far closer to him than she was, obviously.
This anger floods me and fills me with adrenaline for the first time in ages. Suddenly, I want to provoke a reaction. All these days, I've had the urge to do nothing, yet now I want to get up, get up and do something..
I gently brush myself off and say nonchalantly, "I'm going to take a shower."
LaSondra doesn't look up. She continues rocking Tim, but finally shoots a glance my way. Her eyes are still unhappy. I suppose she doesn't trust me much anymore..
Me? I'm Stephanie, fifteen years old. Hollow. Broken. Like the window. My mom and dad went on a business trip a couple months before the outbreak. Never came back. It's safe to assume they're dead now, I guess..
I look down at my cold fingers. The only reason we still have this house, this one source of protection, is because the officials, the tax collectors, died a long time ago. No one has replaced them yet. Why bother? The pandemic took out about 85% of the population here on earth. We, the surviving 15%, must make do with what we have. No one cares about taxes when you have to struggle to put food on the table.. to be happy.
My grandfather, the only family I had besides my siblings, died a few weeks ago. 18 days ago, to be exact. From a heart attack. No one could help him. We just sat there, crying, holding him, watching the light go out of his eyes. He used to say to me, "Steph, when I die, you're going to have to take care of LaSondra and Timmy. Promise me you'll take care of them." Then I would say, "Of course, Pop. I love you." And he'd say, "I love you too," and wrap me in a big hug and everything would be A-OK. It was like our little routine. Something we did each day. To be able to feel safe once more.
But it's not okay now. And I'm in charge.
I don't have the urge to move; I just sit there. Sometimes I blink in and out of reality; I momentarily forget everything around me, and I'm jerked back by Tim's little baby cries, or Sondra's lullabies. Sondra has a nice voice. Everyone assumed she would be a singer someday. Now? That opportunity has been torn away, by the pandemic. The pandemic has torn almost everything away from us.
I drum my thin fingers on my knees. Then I lean back in my chair and doze off. I forget the pandemic, the food shortage, the sickness, everything. But I'm sucked back into it by Timmy, who's crying. Yet again. It's not his fault; babies cry. But it's just so annoying because crying doesn't help the situation. Neither does sitting here. But I don't feel like doing anything else. I actually haven't felt like doing anything else since Pop died.
LaSondra has dark circles under her eyes. Her face is pale and sunken. She gently sets Tim down on our ripped leather sofa and goes to the small desk near my chair where we keep our prized possessions. No one has stolen them yet for fear of illness or contamination.
Sondra carefully opens one of the drawers and takes out a small container of food. It's a plastic bag. Weeks before the pandemic happened, officials passed out small food containers to ration during the virus outbreak, if it happened. I'm lucky that they passed these bags out. These small things are what keep us going each day.
There are about what, six bags in total left in the drawer. Sondra has been careful, rationing them every day. She took leadership for her elective this year in middle school. I made fun of her, but now I'm grateful. At least someone knows how to survive.. Sometimes I feel like she's the oldest, and I'm a baby like Tim, just a burden.
LaSondra opens the bag and takes a small pellet out of it. She eats it slowly, nibbling on the edges before chewing the entire thing and swallowing. She broke all the bread pieces into tiny pellets so it'd be easier to ration. Now, she takes a second one for me and, after sealing the bag shut, gives me the food. I take it gratefully and eat it as fast as I can. My stomach's been rumbling for the past hour or so.
After putting the bag away, she takes a sort of orange paste from another drawer. This is for Tim. Since he's a baby, he certainly can't chew a bread pellet like me or Sondra. Instead, he eats what I call "Sondra's Exquisite Carrot Paste For the Most Important Babies". Of course, it's a joke. Sondra simply takes one of our precious carrots from the garden in the house and grinds it into a fine paste. We only have a couple carrots left in the garden. We also grow radishes and potatoes sometimes, but it's quite hard, so mostly it's just carrots.
To make it easier to handle, she puts the carrot paste into our old ration bags and makes a pipette as to squeeze out a little food for my brother to eat. I know what you're thinking: I don't do much. And it's true. But I feel useless anyways. I don't bother. Feel free to hate on me.
Sondra squirts some onto her finger and gives it to Tim to eat on a platter. It's plastic and it was on sale a few years ago. Perfect for a clumsy baby who is prone to breaking things.
Finally, I stand up and stretch. I do this a few times a day. Sondra has gone from being excited when I do this to disappointed and sad. She looks at me with reproachful eyes but says nothing. She simply walks back to the desk, puts the food away, and goes back to rocking Tim.
Meanwhile, I feel frustration. Does she not realize how hard Pop's death hit me? I was far closer to him than she was, obviously.
This anger floods me and fills me with adrenaline for the first time in ages. Suddenly, I want to provoke a reaction. All these days, I've had the urge to do nothing, yet now I want to get up, get up and do something..
I gently brush myself off and say nonchalantly, "I'm going to take a shower."
LaSondra doesn't look up. She continues rocking Tim, but finally shoots a glance my way. Her eyes are still unhappy. I suppose she doesn't trust me much anymore..