missing. My heart races as if it is afraid that at any second it may stop beating. My stomach turns itself into knots as butterflies try not to get caught up in them. As I push the door open, all goes blank.
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I jerk awake with my hand stretched out in front of me as I if were reaching for something. Tears are streaming down my face. A silent scream lingers on my lips. Realization settles into my waking mind. It was a dream, all of it, a fading, wonderful nightmare. I lay on my bed made of scrap material in stunned silence letting memories replace dreams. My heartbeat slows as sadness takes the place of fear. I look around me at the reality that my subconscious did not want me to see.
I see a ruined house covered in debris and ash instead of garland and icicles. A gaping hole replaces the two large windows where a brightly lit Christmas tree stood every Christmas for generations. There hasn’t been a tree there in ten years, and there will be no tree there this year or any other year in the foreseeable future. An icy winter breeze has blown open the tarp I hastily threw up to block the cold. I can just barely see the war-torn world around me.
The war is over. At least we hope it is. No matter what, for me it is over, and that is the only reason I returned.
If I had not seen the remains of the large tower down by the river, I would have never known I was home. I searched this city for days trying to uncover landmarks that marked this city as mine or that showed that at one time it had thrived long after it should have fallen to nature, as so many others have.
Not for the first time, the knowledge that I am alone in the world hits me, and I slump against the wall. Our numbers weren’t large, but not since the year all of this began have they been nearly nonexistent. I scared myself the first time I spoke into the emptiness that is this new world. My voiced echoed throughout the city so loud that I jerked and hid behind an overturned car. I think that this must have been how she, my great-great grandmother, felt those first few years by herself after the world ended.
I came back here to the shell of my family home mostly because it is one of the few homes still standing, relatively speaking. Most of the walls are still erect but nearly all of the windows have blown out and sections of the roof have fallen in. It will take a lot to make it livable, but I have nowhere else to go, nowhere else I want to be. All of the other houses on the street are all but leveled. A few brick columns stick out of broken foundations where fireplaces used to be. A wall here and there is all that is left of most of the homes.
I shiver as cold air grabs me. The many blankets I have wrapped myself in cannot shield me from the frozen air seeping in through the gaping holes in the house. I contemplate lying back down, trying to get a few more moments of sleep, but the ground is too hard. My body aches from all the long nights I have had to sleep on the semi-burnt remnants of these hardwood floors. Besides, I really do not wish to return to that dream, as lovely as it was.
My stomach grumbles.
I promise it food today.
It knows I am lying.
Food is becoming harder and harder to find. Not much has survived that long ago attack. I started out with a decent stash of vegetables and meat but my stash has been gone for a few days. I rationed them the best I could to make them last longer. I have spent every day since I ran out scouting for food, when I’m not finding ways to make this place livable again, but so far, all I have found are a few jars of canned green beans.
Piling layer upon layer of torn clothing onto my body, I start to hum the words to Elvis Presley’s version of Blue Christmas, one of her favorite songs. I want to stop the words from forming in my head. Although, I know if I do, I have to go back to listening to the deafening sounds of nothing. The nothingness should be a blessing after the sounds of war from the last years, but the song just makes the silent flashes of memory hurt even worse.
Quietly, I make my way throughout the day. Methodically, working on different sections of the house, I try desperately not to think about anything. Not of all the years I spent fighting. Or all the people I have killed for no reason in a war that never should have happened. I try not to think of the family I once had or the family I could have had. Every time one of these thoughts tries to creep into my head, I shake it out.
I do not want to think.
I just want to work.
Around noon a thought does comes to me, an idea really, and it is one that is adamant about staying. I have not visited them today. I probably should stop visiting them, but I ache so much for them. A quiet tear rolls down my cheek. I change clothes, trying not to look like I have just been through hell. It does not work. Most of my clothes are burnt and torn.
Dressed as nicely as I will ever look, I stare out the back door. My family had kept the most beautiful flower gardens here once the greenhouse had gone up. There once had been a stone birdbath in the center of the yard surrounded by the prettiest purple irises. There had been gardens that wrapped completely around the house but the ones in the back yard had always been my favorite.
Today, those gardens are gone, along with my favorite willow that had once engulfed the left back corner of the yard. There is not a single speck of green left anywhere on the frozen ground. Large, circled, scorch marks caused by the fires that accompanied the battle will make sure that nothing grows here for a very long time.
I look into the small acre of land just beyond the back gate at all the small pieces that had once been grave markers lined up so perfectly. The small, makeshift cemetery is creepy and sad.
Pulling my coat tighter around me, I walk up and down the rows, reading the names and dates that are still legible. The markers are plain and crudely crafted. I do not have any flowers to decorate them.
Thick clouds fill the sky, but there will be no snow. Not this Christmas.
If I let myself I would stay out here all day, talking to them, watching over them, but I can’t live life that way. Reluctantly, I go back in the house and pull the thick bundle of pages I’ve been guarding with my life for years out of my bag. I do it every day, but haven’t been able to bring myself to read the story.
Today will be the day, though. It just feels right. Feels like it is time.
I crawl back under my blankets and force myself to read aloud the first line, “This is the story of the end of civilization and the birth of a new world and its imminent demise.” The words immediately take me back to the day I decided we needed a history of how this all began. I laugh at how overly dramatic I was despite the fact that the words are true…
Read more of Alone at:
https://www.facebook.com/Alone.Jennifer.Reynolds
Acknowledgements
I want to thank my mother and husband for always believing in me, to thank all of my family and friends who have come out this last year to show their support for me and show their love of the stories I tell. And finally, I want to thank Kathryn Cruse for all of her hard work in helping me finalize this story and all of my others. If it weren’t for her, I would still be reading and rereading my novels, never able to settle on a draft. Again, Kathryn, thank you all for everything you’ve done.
About the Author
Jennifer Reynolds is a native of North Alabama. She is newly married. She and her husband tied the knot Friday, September 13, 2013.
Jennifer has a Master of Fine Arts degree from National University and a Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of North Alabama.
Writing has always been a large part of her life. In high school, her local newspaper published a large number of her poems, and she won numerous poetry and short stories awards. Since high school, she has worked on a number of different projects, but her focus has mainly been on her education.
She wrote Alone, around the time she graduated with her B.A. Since then, she has written numerous other novels, short stories, and poems.
Aside from spending her days immersed in the fictional worlds she creates, she works part time at Stained Glass Artistry.
You can reach Jen
nifer at:
https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJenniferReynolds
Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer?
Thanks,
Jennifer Reynolds
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