There's only so much time before the wind catches up to me and blows this perfect shelter I've found to bits, the sad broken glass and planks of wood littering the ground in a metaphorical representation of what's going on inside me, of everything ripping apart suddenly and with destructible force. It's been four hours since we last got caught in a wind storm, and my mind is reeling with what this means- how much longer can we stay alive like this, when the storms are clearly getting closer and closer together, like lightning that crashes sooner and sooner after thunder rumbles. I'm shivering, but the cold is something that seems inevitable now, inescapable even for the short- now shorter- periods of time that we're safe from the winds. Jacob is crying again, and I would be, too, if my eyes weren't so dried out from the wind blowing into my sockets like crashing waves onto a shore. I would comfort him, but my arms are shaking so fiercely and the cuts all over me are no doubt infected now, wrapping myself around him would only frighten him more and give him a greater chance of also getting infected. My mind not being able to focus on the storms now with the thought of infection, I look down at the cuts on my arms, torso, and legs and choke back a dry sob at the brown stuff filling up the gashes, and showing itself faintly in my veins. Upon first glance, you might think it was just a dirty cut, and considering the circumstances, my wounds being filled with mud wouldn't seem unusual. But you can tell it's not dirt if you watch just a moment longer- the lines of it in my veins are dim, of course, but you can see it traveling up, at a pace so fast that you can watch it progress, and yet slow enough that it could be completely extracted quickly and easily, and I could be saved- if I weren't running away from the storms, getting more and more cuts and being attacked with more and more of the infection. Jacob would have been dead long ago if it weren't for his clothes- the almost indestructible fabric seemed like the perfect solution when it first came out, before it became clear that enough of the suits wouldn't be able to be manufactured fast enough to save everyone, and battles for the material broke out to top off everything else that was going wrong. His helmet is clear, but not glass- this material was also something that quickly became a delicacy worth fighting to the death for. I was only able to pawn one suit, in the end, and there were mixed emotions in my family when I came home carrying the small-size costume. While everyone knew it was right to put Jacob first, the youngest in our group, the instinct of self-preservation was overwhelming in our chests, and people who had mates were struggling to compose themselves.
Everyone always said I would be the last, besides Jacob, they taunted me teasingly that I was indestructible. These were only jokes, and I knew it, but each and every joke came from someone with agony in their eyes and scars on their faces, people I loved more than my own life, telling me that they would be gone, that I would be alone. Though I eventually accepted that they were right, it didn't prevent the near-constant implosions of my heart as one by one the people I cared about were thrown too hard into concrete walls, were crushed by the weight of falling advertisement boards, and were, worst of all, drowned in oxygen as the infection sucked all the hydrogen out of their bodies. Their skin was covered in burns and their eyes dissolved right in front of me. They were left with no opportunity to take a last gasp of breath, as the thing that was killing them was the oxygen.
"I'm scared," Jacob whispers, and I'm about to give up and close him into my arms when I suddenly lose my breath, and the world goes black.
© 2011
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