Her index grazed the raised line just below her knee, faded from age. There was a fire burning somewhere in the distance, she could hear it crackle against the dried, autumn branches. In front of her, a strangled groan sounded as something dragged itself off into the distance. Ruin surrounded her. Scrap metal fallen from a water tower or power line or old Mercedes was strewn about the dried up plains. What little grass was left grew in yellow and patchy, like the hair around her scar. Soup cans littered her kitchen and the door was one strong shout away from blowing off its hinges. She didn’t have half the mind to fix it, didn’t know how to either. In a sick, twisted fit of rage she had carved up the Arabian carpet and now its remains were left scattered across the hallway to her surprisingly tidy bedroom. It wasn’t really hers. She found this house when she had grown tired of walking, tired of searching the desolate land for someone else.
There were others once. Running, fighting, all moving past her as if she didn’t exist. She watched from her stoop as they dragged themselves through the dirt with the sunrise, hollow shells. Or maybe not so hollow. Once the girl had gathered the courage to walk further than the house, out into the sun where she had seen the others go. There was grass out there, the sound of water rushing covered anything else. But mostly there was life, and whatever it was seemed happy. Still, they ignored her. She had gotten close enough to see the dandelions sprouting from their backs, but there was never even a slight indication that she was seen. Eye to what could be an eye elicited no reaction and so, she retreated.
A leather journal lay useless to her left, kissing the toe of her scuffed boots, the browns matching. A smarter person would’ve taken advantage of her situation – studied maybe – but she just kept a diary in the slight hope that someone out there would care about all the nothing she had been doing these past years? Days? She wasn’t keeping a good count. It didn’t matter anyways, she had stopped journaling at some point, when her voice exhausted even her own ears.
An old radio buzzed in the back, all static now. There was no one left to play any music or drone on about pop culture anymore. No voice left but her own, which croaked out with every attempted use. Beauty remained, in the trees that grew freely and the mushrooms managing to grow over even the rustiest car parts. Nature could bloom now without a hand crushing its neck. Still, it didn’t bloom near her. Occasionally, little patches of grass would sprout between the floorboards, but they withered quickly — as if she herself was the disease preventing their blooming.
Every tip, edge, and cliff of her little wasteland had been explored so she resigned herself to sit. Not to wait, she had learned long ago that there was nothing left to wait for. It was almost peaceful, this nothingness that remained. In a way, it was almost reminiscent of her life before. Maybe now things were more meaningful, when you didn’t have to visualize how fleeting it all was – is.
For a second, she thought she saw a figure approaching, but it too passed her by. Or maybe it was never there to begin with. Time had been passing over her like sludge, sloshing over her hair and skin, dragging it down at the edges and pulling out her color. Yet it seemed, nothing could compel her to move anymore. She was stuck.