Fiction: Awakening
Aug. 25th, 2011 04:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyTitle: Awakening
Word count: 1,042
Rating: PG-13, I guess, for death
Prompt:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
inkstains contest 43: alone at the end
Notes: Depressing! Whee!
One morning Deri woke up and she wasn’t coughing anymore.
It was almost hard to believe. She pushed herself all the way upright—she’d been sitting half-up anyway, pillows and a blanket piled behind her, to help with her breathing during the night—and took a careful breath. Then she let it out. There was no tickle in her throat, her lungs didn’t spasm. She took a deeper one. She still didn’t cough.
A smile spread its way across her face, something she hadn’t thought she would feel for a long time, if ever. She must have beaten the illness. She’d been sick for weeks; she had, quite honestly, expected to die.
Maybe the illness was losing potency, or because so many others in her town had gotten sick before she had, she’d had time to gain some immunity. Whatever the reason, she was grateful.
She dragged herself out of bed and stood unsteadily. She was still weak from not being able to eat much or sleep well, and of course, lack of exercise beyond going up and down the stairs in her house. But now she should be able to get her strength back, build proper fires (the gas lines to her house had long since stopped working), and cook—not only for herself, but for her mother, and anyone else in the town who’d managed to withstand the illness this long. Then maybe they’d be strong enough to beat it as well.
Leaning on the banister, she made her slow way down the steps and into the kitchen. The first thing she did was check the freezer—yes, it was still well enough insulated that, despite no longer being connected to any kind of electricity, things in there were keeping. Not for much longer, though. She would have to cook that bacon. That would be their breakfast.
She walked outside with the bacon, a pan, a serving dish, and a packet of the matches that her parents, presciently or frivolously, had hoarded. There was firewood, once intended for a summer camping trip, on the back porch, but when she reached the firepit her father had dug it had sufficient wood and charcoal for at least one meal.
It was colder outside than she’d expected; autumn must have come on, rather suddenly, while she was sick and unable to notice anything. There was a scent of frost in the air, and her fingers struggled to break up the kindling and get the fire lit. She ended up having to use three matches, cursing herself for her wastefulness—who knew when they would be able to buy more, or to make fire some other way?
But at last she had the fire going, and its cheery warmth was as welcome to her as its promise of food. She cooked the whole packet of bacon, eating some of it before it had had time to cool, laying the rest of it on the serving dish for her and her mother to share.
It wasn’t until she’d finished cooking the bacon, and its hissing and popping had died away, that she realized how quiet it was. Far too quiet. When she’d been ill—she took another experimental deep breath and was still astonished when she didn’t cough—she hadn’t noticed the sounds around her, but now she realized that she could hear no other coughing. It was still early, the sun not yet peeking over the tops of the trees that framed her yard. Could the entire neighborhood be asleep still?
Dread crawled its way up into her throat. She went back inside, moving carefully, and set the tray of bacon on the kitchen table. Then she went upstairs to her mother’s room.
Her mother was in bed as she’d expected, sitting half-raised on a pile of cushions like Deri’s, her eyes closed and her mouth open. “Mom?” Deri said tentatively, walking up to her. She took her mother’s hand in her own, which were shaking. “I… I made some bacon for breakfast…” She didn’t want to know, but she forced herself to feel for a pulse, first in her mother’s wrist, then her throat. When she couldn’t deny the truth anymore, she backed away and out of the room, unable to see for tears.
She no longer had any appetite for the bacon, and anyway there was too much for her to eat herself. She put on a jacket, picked up the tray, and went out into the street. The too-quiet street. She could hear no one coughing.
She swallowed and made herself walk to the nearest house where she’d last known of someone alive—one of her classmates, who had already been ill when Deri had caught it, but who might have beaten it as well. She knocked on the door. “Hello? Is anyone home? I made some bacon and I need someone to share it with!” Her voice was hoarse, and she tried to force some cheer into it, but she knew, in a way that she could not even deny to herself, that she would receive no answer.
She walked from house to house, knocking on the doors where people had been living the last she’d heard, but she received no response. She had to rest every couple of blocks and managed to eat some of the bacon, her appetite returned with weariness. The town where she lived was small, and the sun had not reached its highest point in the sky before she had knocked on all the doors she could. She rested, then wandered up and down the neatly-laid-out streets, calling out as loudly as she could without pain. But by afternoon she had to accept that no one would respond. There was no one left.
She sat on the steps of her family’s home and shook. It took all her willpower not to throw up the bacon. She couldn’t waste the calories.
When the sun had set, she went back into the house and lit a candle. Then she began to gather supplies. North, there was a city; she would be able to find it if she followed the highway. There would be some survivors in the city. There had to be.
Word count: 1,042
Rating: PG-13, I guess, for death
Prompt:
inkstains contest 43: alone at the endNotes: Depressing! Whee!
One morning Deri woke up and she wasn’t coughing anymore.
It was almost hard to believe. She pushed herself all the way upright—she’d been sitting half-up anyway, pillows and a blanket piled behind her, to help with her breathing during the night—and took a careful breath. Then she let it out. There was no tickle in her throat, her lungs didn’t spasm. She took a deeper one. She still didn’t cough.
A smile spread its way across her face, something she hadn’t thought she would feel for a long time, if ever. She must have beaten the illness. She’d been sick for weeks; she had, quite honestly, expected to die.
Maybe the illness was losing potency, or because so many others in her town had gotten sick before she had, she’d had time to gain some immunity. Whatever the reason, she was grateful.
She dragged herself out of bed and stood unsteadily. She was still weak from not being able to eat much or sleep well, and of course, lack of exercise beyond going up and down the stairs in her house. But now she should be able to get her strength back, build proper fires (the gas lines to her house had long since stopped working), and cook—not only for herself, but for her mother, and anyone else in the town who’d managed to withstand the illness this long. Then maybe they’d be strong enough to beat it as well.
Leaning on the banister, she made her slow way down the steps and into the kitchen. The first thing she did was check the freezer—yes, it was still well enough insulated that, despite no longer being connected to any kind of electricity, things in there were keeping. Not for much longer, though. She would have to cook that bacon. That would be their breakfast.
She walked outside with the bacon, a pan, a serving dish, and a packet of the matches that her parents, presciently or frivolously, had hoarded. There was firewood, once intended for a summer camping trip, on the back porch, but when she reached the firepit her father had dug it had sufficient wood and charcoal for at least one meal.
It was colder outside than she’d expected; autumn must have come on, rather suddenly, while she was sick and unable to notice anything. There was a scent of frost in the air, and her fingers struggled to break up the kindling and get the fire lit. She ended up having to use three matches, cursing herself for her wastefulness—who knew when they would be able to buy more, or to make fire some other way?
But at last she had the fire going, and its cheery warmth was as welcome to her as its promise of food. She cooked the whole packet of bacon, eating some of it before it had had time to cool, laying the rest of it on the serving dish for her and her mother to share.
It wasn’t until she’d finished cooking the bacon, and its hissing and popping had died away, that she realized how quiet it was. Far too quiet. When she’d been ill—she took another experimental deep breath and was still astonished when she didn’t cough—she hadn’t noticed the sounds around her, but now she realized that she could hear no other coughing. It was still early, the sun not yet peeking over the tops of the trees that framed her yard. Could the entire neighborhood be asleep still?
Dread crawled its way up into her throat. She went back inside, moving carefully, and set the tray of bacon on the kitchen table. Then she went upstairs to her mother’s room.
Her mother was in bed as she’d expected, sitting half-raised on a pile of cushions like Deri’s, her eyes closed and her mouth open. “Mom?” Deri said tentatively, walking up to her. She took her mother’s hand in her own, which were shaking. “I… I made some bacon for breakfast…” She didn’t want to know, but she forced herself to feel for a pulse, first in her mother’s wrist, then her throat. When she couldn’t deny the truth anymore, she backed away and out of the room, unable to see for tears.
She no longer had any appetite for the bacon, and anyway there was too much for her to eat herself. She put on a jacket, picked up the tray, and went out into the street. The too-quiet street. She could hear no one coughing.
She swallowed and made herself walk to the nearest house where she’d last known of someone alive—one of her classmates, who had already been ill when Deri had caught it, but who might have beaten it as well. She knocked on the door. “Hello? Is anyone home? I made some bacon and I need someone to share it with!” Her voice was hoarse, and she tried to force some cheer into it, but she knew, in a way that she could not even deny to herself, that she would receive no answer.
She walked from house to house, knocking on the doors where people had been living the last she’d heard, but she received no response. She had to rest every couple of blocks and managed to eat some of the bacon, her appetite returned with weariness. The town where she lived was small, and the sun had not reached its highest point in the sky before she had knocked on all the doors she could. She rested, then wandered up and down the neatly-laid-out streets, calling out as loudly as she could without pain. But by afternoon she had to accept that no one would respond. There was no one left.
She sat on the steps of her family’s home and shook. It took all her willpower not to throw up the bacon. She couldn’t waste the calories.
When the sun had set, she went back into the house and lit a candle. Then she began to gather supplies. North, there was a city; she would be able to find it if she followed the highway. There would be some survivors in the city. There had to be.