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Barefoot in the Streets
When it starts, no one will notice. I won’t be any different. It will start like a virus like the H1-N1. People will be afraid of catching it, sure. But no one will know enough for it to save them. There will be no valiant scientist who knows the truth and tries to warn the public. If there were, he would be the first to succumb to the hunger. His story would never even make the news. I will be at home, eating chips and salsa and unknowingly waiting for it all to begin.
It will start with a headache throbbing through your head. It will go on and off for weeks and no amount of Tylenol will seem to suppress it. However, you will try to suppress it anyway. I will be at home, complaining to my mom as she fusses at me, because she’s feeling the same. I will grow angry at the world. A throbbing in my mind gives me less time to think, less time to write. I need thoughts to keep me in any kind of good spirit. I need writing to keep me sane. I will be in my room from then on, just trying to let myself recover. I will only be trying to regain the ability to do what I loved. My hands will itch until the headache dies down. Then I will rush to my laptop and spill my thoughts onto the nearest Word document. I will collapse on my bed as soon as the pounding starts up again. This will be my saving grace.
Everyone else, those who go outside, will feel the pain begin to dull in their head. They will become numb, blinded to a single desire. They will feverish, with a cold all of the time. Their throats will be dry, desiring something more. Thirsting for something no water can quench. The throbbing will come back, this time in their stomach. Making them hungry, driving them slowly mad. The itch will move to their skin, causing it slowly rot away. They will feel a warm tugging sensation, and then nothing at all. The only thing left to feel is the hunger. Until one day…
I will never hear the screaming in my neighbor’s house. I will never hear the news casts because my mind is too loud to hear the television. However, as soon as they come marching around my neighborhood like sleepless soldiers, I will peer out of my window to see them. They will be people I once knew and people I never knew, reaping the souls of people who were too recluse to fall victim right away.
My heart will pound to see their rotting flesh. My soul will ache when I watch them rip at the life of someone else. However, nothing will hurt as much as my mind when I hear their screams. I will tremble, unable to take it. I will cover my mouth and try to vomit, but nothing will come out. My stomach feels hollow. Every inch of me feels hollow, as though my organs were already being replaced with the singular need to feed. Then I will cry. I will hide behind my curtains and cry.
They will not see me, not at first, not for weeks as they plunder. The screams will chorus as I hide, letting me know that there are still people out there. Or there were, at least. I will eat whatever I can find; whatever I don’t think is infected. I may starve, and my hunger will begin to consume me. My mind will beat slowly, the headaches creating a drum that will keep me going on.
With any luck, my tears will turn into rain to chase them to greener pastures. They leave slowly in their packs, still looking for bodies of the breathing. I will not wait a minute to climb from the ruin that was once my home to see what has become of my Earth in just a matter of weeks. I will be starved and wide eyed, searching for survivors. I will be writing plots in my mind of how I could have done things differently. My sleepless eyes will wildly see a beautiful world. A world where the rain beats down on a lovely and empty street. I won’t think that they see me.
I will climb from my hiding place and run to the opening, barefoot in the streets. There, I will dance, the waters extinguishing fires around me. The smoke will paint my footsteps as I bound around my stage. For the first time in a long time, I will feel free. I will be without parents and friends. I will be without obligations, yet I will still be able to roam the streets. My laughs will chorus out and the rain hits against my face. It will be so cold, yet so pure. My hair will cling to my face. The asphalt will begin to vibrate as they return to sound of the rain song I will be singing. I won’t really care; I will soon be truly free.
I will feel tugging at my skin, but I will ignore it. I will begin to rip off my clothes, slowly, freeing myself of my past afflictions. I will feel my body sink, but my mind will still be dancing. I will feel my heart beating, too strongly to say that I’ve given up. I will hear noises, but nothing as loud as my own mind throbbing from headaches. I will steal hear that throbbing. And only the removal of my mind itself could slow it down.
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I save this document now as the doctor asks me if my headaches have worsened since I last saw him. I tell him yes. He gives me more medicine. I only stare at him and tell him it won’t be enough to save me.
“Always imaginative,” he says with a smile as he leaves with his clipboard. He’s off to get another prescription sheet. I must have made him run out through the months. I laugh softly. He doesn’t notice at all.
When it starts, no one will notice.
 dangerous xx L I A S O N · Tue Mar 29, 2011 @ 06:19pm · 0 Comments |
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