I managed to find a notebook and a pen in the spirals in this mess of a house. I don't know who it used to belong to, but it is mine now. Completely, and totally mine. There are silly doodles in the back, with the lines and curves made by a teenage girl. I have to write. My fingers are aching to document what I'm assuming is to be my last days of living. I think this notebook used to belong to the mangled, blonde corpse that is living on the couch downstairs now.

I have been in this house for five days now. I am eating the last of their food, and I will have to go soon again. I have shoved everything edible down my throat, swallowed every ounce of liquid I could find since the water is no longer running in this house. The stench of the bodies downstairs are beginning to stick to my clothing and I swear my hair smells like rotten flesh as well.

I have been moving ever since the Sickness demolished my neighborhood about a month ago. It started in the middle of the night; the screaming next door woke us all up. At first, I thought I was dreaming. I thought maybe I had woken up from a nightmare, and the last tails of the dream were still ringing in my ears. My mom came into my room, seeing I was awake as well. She sat on the end of my bed, stroking my legs. She looked worried and asked me, "Did you hear that scream?" I looked into my mother's crystal blue eyes, and I saw fear. I saw grisly, ugly fear. I reached up and put my hand against her soft cheek and I asked, "Mommy, what's wrong?"

It has been just my mother and I since I was born. My bastard of a father left my mother while she was pregnant, telling her that I was a waste of space and should have been aborted. He was too young to be tied with a baby, and refused to take care of a "worthless creature." We have done everything on our own. The two of us, peas in a pod. Nothing could separate us, no matter what.

She looked at me, and I saw those tears form in her eyes. She was scared. Frightened, helpless. She got up and she closed my door. She pushed the small silver button in the middle of the knob. I looked at her, the sting of tears stabbing me in the back of my eyes. "Mommy, what's wrong?" Now I was scared. She was crying, tears running down her porcelain face. She told me, "There have been rumors of this... thing. This Sickness. It makes people eat each other. Destroy one another. Act like animals..." She trailed off, the fear taking hold of her. We heard more screams. Except this time, they were in our backyard. I got out of bed, much to Mommy's pleading to not look. I pulled back my purple curtains and looked out my window. To the left of our deck, my neighbor was eating his wife. I swear, she was looking at me. Her eyes were glass, her mouth had blood streaming out of it. She was making these sickening movements, as if she was trying to gasp for air. I saw her insides. I saw the guts come out. Her husband's hands were digging into her stomach flesh, ripping it piece by piece until it was oozing like putty in his hands. He was smiling. He was actually enjoying this. I witnessed his wife die, and I can't imagine the searing pain she had been feeling. The ripping, the grinding of her husband's teeth on her throat. The blood gurgling in between chews of adipose tissue. Suddenly, my mother grabbed me from the window. I begin violently screaming and thrashing. I wanted to hide. I wanted to sleep forever. I kept telling myself it was a nightmare, it was a nightmare, it was a nightmare.

I wake up the next morning, in my closet. My mother is asleep by my door, with the pink pistol she had bought herself a couple years ago in her hands. The door is still locked. I am momentarily confused, unable to process what happened. Then it came flooding back to me, and I was so overwhelmed I began to scream. My mother, frightened, woke up. She came over and cuddled me. I look around the room and notice my mommy has brought up almost all of our edible food. Blankets, pillows, clothes. A couple gallons of water and some juice. I ask her, "What is going on?" She calmly tells me, with the blankest look on her face, "The end of the world, sweetheart."

My mother and I sat in my room for days. Nine days, to be exact. The only way I was sure of what day it was is because of the watch I wear. It's one of those weird water proof ones with the date and two different kinds of time. We ate the food we could, we sneaked out to shower during the day time, since that's when the least activity was happening. On the ninth day, we went out into the living room and looked out the windows. To see if anything, ANYONE, was around. Blood. Blood, everywhere. Flesh stained the asphalt of our neighborhood, as if someone has dragged bodies across the entire length of our street. Entrails covered mailboxes, and random body parts were in flower pots. "The end of the world is really happening," my mother said absently.

Suddenly, we heard a giant screech. A huge black humvee was rumbling down our street. "Stay here," she said. I hesitated and told her to not go outside. She went outside on our front porch and began to yell, "HELP! WE NEED HELP!" I looked out the window, barely peeking over the sill. She was waving her arms in typical SOS fashion. My beautiful mother: her porcelain skin glowing in the sunlight, that long brunette hair tied up in a bun with a few wisps escaping around her ears. Her purple floral dress making her look young and cute. The absolute look of fear on her face as the humvee approached made me scared shitless. She turned around, but I couldn't hear her yelling. She was pointing upstairs, for me to run back upstairs. I will never forget what it's like to see my mother's blood and organs splattered against our window. I will never forget seeing the last few words my mother was able to mouth out before they shot her: "I love you, Elizabeth."

I have been on my own since then. After they killed my mother, I sat on the floor by the door for several hours. Unable to focus and unable to do anything but sob violently. I sobbed so hard I vomited three times, my ribs shook with every cry. I sobbed so hard I swore my eyes were going to pop out. I rocked myself to sleep a few times. Every time I woke up, I was hit harder with the realization that my mother was laying dead on my porch, her liver and her intestines were covering our welcome mat. I cried so much. I heard a screech. Not a scream, a screech. Like a banshee. I looked out my window, unable to see a lot through my mother's blood. I saw them, my neighbors. They were sniffing around, searching for body parts to nibble one. They found someone's almost intact corpse, and were feasting on it.

A realization hit me, they are coming for my mother next. I refused to let that happen. I refused to let my rock, my everything, my sole provider be eaten and devoured by flash hungry... animals. I creaked the door open. My mother was face down on the porch, and I was able to grab her by the back of her dress and pull her inside. I was afraid. I was horrified. I wanted to weep. I was scared to turn her over. I heard the banshee like screech again, and it jolted it. I dragged my mother over by our couch, still face down. I sat her up. The poor thing, her nose was broken, and her mouth was busted. The front of her dress was soaked in blood and guts. I wept. I let the tears stream down my face and mix with her blood on her dress. I managed to pull her up on the couch. I pulled a blanket over her. I couldn't bare to see her in such a state. I went upstairs, wrapped myself in my comforter and plopped down in my closet. I sobbed myself to sleep, eventually.

The day after, I attempted to kill myself. I couldn't figure out how to reload my mother's pistol, and I didn't have the guts to stab myself in the stomach or anything. Eventually, I got my shit together. I made a plan. I was going to leave. I turned on the TV in hopes something was on. The local news station was broadcasting a state wide emergency, nearly begging for everyone to evacuate. I found a duffel bag and packed it full of clothes and food. I rummaged through my mother's bathroom and found a first aid kit. Here I was, 16 years old, facing the end of the world by myself.

I left during the day time. Gave my mother's corpse one last kiss goodbye. I started walking. I kept behind houses and in between bushes. The stench of rotting flesh made me vomit a few times along the way. I walked all day. Sipping on some of the juice I had packed away. When night time started to fall, I found a house that didn't look like it had been ravaged. I peeked in the windows, and no one was home. I tried the front door, and it was open. I walked in, expecting to have my face eaten immediately. I felt fur brush against my legs and I screamed. I noticed a puppy shying away from me when I looked down. Poor thing, I thought to myself. I leaned down and begin clicking my tongue, hoping it would come to me. I looked down at it's tag, noticing it's name was Waldo. "Hey I found you!" I said out loud, to no one in particular. He licked my face. There was an address imprinted on his tag, and I realized I had walked unknowingly almost thirty miles into the next little town.

I stayed at this house for about three weeks: when I ran out of food. I vandalized the house. I screamed and I cried sometimes at night. I broke all the china, and smashed the glass figurines in a bedroom. I raged and screamed and cried, because I was officially by myself. I had not seen a living body since my mother. I had no idea what to expect, or what to even do. My cell phone was doing me no good, and I couldn't get service anywhere. I tucked it into my duffel bag in hopes that I could pick up service eventually. Waldo and I slept in a closet that was empty, almost every night. I never once heard the screeching banshee noises, and I heard the rumble of a humvee only a handful of times. The water was running in this house, and the electricity did sometimes. One day, I woke up and noticed Waldo wasn't nuzzled beside me. I rubbed my crusty sleep eyes and peeked out of the closet. He was dead. His stiff little body was by the door, as if he was trying to get out. I'm not sure what killed him, or how he died. When I looked at the bare cupboards, and the little brown body that had kept me sane the last few weeks, I knew it was time to go. I rummaged through the clothing I could find and took what I wanted. I filled all the containers I could with water, and put them in my duffel bag. The bag was getting heavy, and I had to start wearing it with the strap across my chest. I noticed it was still early morning, and I decided to walk.

I saw more bodies along the way. I think the utter fear and the shock I felt was keeping me numb and blank. It didn't bother me. The flesh stains, the blood drips, the organs and body parts scattered didn't phase me. I just kept thinking about my mother. How my mother would have kept pushing for us to walk. To go. To leave. I kept walking. I walked all day, until the sun started to go down for the day. A stroke of fear went down my spine, and I stopped right in my tracks when I heard the humvee rumbling. I felt myself go white. I felt what true fear was. All I could keep replaying in my mind was the splash of blood on my window, exploding from my mother's stomach. I dashed into the first house that was on my immediate right, not even bothering to check there weren't any flesh eating human beings trapped inside. I sat behind the heavy door, listening to the increasing sound of the humvee coming closer, and then fading. What were they doing? What were they looking for? And for some reason, I heard them regularly. Never any noise except for the rumble of the engine...

I have been in this house since then. For five days, I have lived with dead bodies on the floor, the mangled remains of a family strewn across their living room and kitchen. I can't get the water to work, and the electricity only works at certain times during the day and night. I have also broken anything of relative value. Smashed the collection of porcelain dolls on the mantle. Rummaged through clothing and jewelry boxes, and took the things I knew would fit me and were of value. I flipped mattresses. Turned dressers over. Smashed keepsake photos. I found a collection of vibrators and then $300 right under it. I took the money, thinking that it was such an odd place to store emergency cash. If that's even what that money was. I felt momentarily guilty, thinking of the disappointment I would face from my mother for stealing and vandalizing like I was. Then bitter resentment hit me that she was dead. Stolen from me, and I was going to make sure everyone knew what it was like to have the things you loved fucking destroyed. Even if they were dead, I wanted them to feel it in their corpses.

I still sleep in a closet. I don't trust sleeping out in the open. Right now, the electricity is on. It's roughly 0900 PM but it's so dark outside already. I don't think the street lamps are coming on anymore. I have eaten almost all the edible food in this house. I could probably sneak by one more day and finish off the canned beans and the few slices of bread that are left. I'm scared to go outside. I have heard screams, and they are increasing in number as the days go on. I'm not sure if people are dying, or if they are flesh eaters screaming at the agony of their hunger pains. I stink. I haven't showered in about a week and smell like rotten flesh and sweat and fear. I'm pretty sure I have blood stains on my face, but I haven't looked in a mirror since my mother died. I look exactly like her, and seeing my own reflection would make me lose it. Tomorrow night will probably be the last night I spend in here. The smell is getting to me. I'll need more food. I need to find running water. I need a lot of things, and my sanity is one of them.

Want more? Click here.