(Written in the POV of Hoya)

 I haven’t seen any of my kind for months. Or perhaps it’s only been just a few weeks. Nowadays, even time seems tired, aging along with the decline of civilization.

To be honest, I would’ve ended my life a long time ago. The only thing that’s keeping me alive is the notion that my sister is still alive. I’ve been on my own for a long time now. I see nothing but broken trees, filthy water, and the remnants of homes devoured in the apocalypse for miles around. 

And then, there’s them.

They taint the air green at night, , mourning in a dead language only they understand. They are the spirits of the dead. The wronged. The ones who left shortly after it all began. I can smell them at night. Their stench reeks of sickness and sadness, and it all rolls over me, filling me with nausea. 

There are nights where they find me. Nights where I run from them in the bleak darkness. But there is no escape—there never was. They find me. Envelope me in their anger and bitterness while I crouch on the ground, palms crushing my ears, tears sliding down my face, silent sobs wracking my body.

I don’t know what to do anymore. Every night they come for me.

And every night I wonder how much longer I can hold on.

My idea for this is a story centered around some kind of apocalypse (yeah, I know) because I recently read a book about one (called The 5th Wave) and I fell in love with the idea. So there you go.

Give me a comment and make my day please?

Picture taken from writeworld.