Walking the Ruins

Hunters returning, and a hard stare

Drawing of Leona as seen by Dystopian_heart

Later, when the light outside starts to fade, Rose, Kevin, and I are sitting in the main room of the house. I am peeling potatoes when the door opens. Steve enters, followed by Jenny.

"Leona, you're up!" Steve approaches me, smiling. I rise, and we hug, briefly. He takes a step back and looks at me. "You're thin!"

"You're not!" I say, inspecting his biceps. "Real work seems to become you." Standing straight, his t-shirt bulging with the muscles of his chest, he looks taller and stronger than three weeks ago. His face has gained color, underlining the warmth of his brown eyes.

"Hello, Leona!" Jenny comes closer to stand beside Steve. The weeks spent outside look good on her, too. Her face is tanned, and she is beaming, showing a row of white teeth. "How are you?"

"Well ... I already told Kevin that I feel as if I were eighty years old." Then I see that she is holding Steve's hand. Suddenly, I feel all numb inside.

"I am sure that you'll be better soon." Jenny's large eyes look at me, commiserating. "Look, I have something for you! Something that will do you good." She takes off her backpack and gets a bunch of grapes from it, handing it to me.

"Thanks," I say, running on autopilot. I sit down again and watch her and Steve unpack their findings. They have brought fruits and berries. And Steve has killed a hare, which he has bound to his backpack.

I realize that I have started eating the grapes, without really noticing their taste. Steve helps Jenny unpacking, touching her shoulder gently. Jenny smiles at him.

During dinner, Jenny and Steve tell of their day's excursion. I listen, trying to ignore the affectionate glances that the two exchange. They talk of ruins they have explored, of great villas at the lakeside, of the remains of a city to the east, and of wolf tracks in the mud.

The room has turned dark and gloomy. Its low ceiling with its black, wooden beams weighs down on us, like a slab of bedrock.

"Hey, Leona, don't look so sad," Kevin says. My brooding mood obviously shows, but I hope that its reason is not as apparent. "You will soon be able to go foraging and hunting yourself."

He gets up and moves to a corner of the room, apparently looking for something. "Here, I have something for you." He returns with a bow and a quiver of arrows. "I made them for you."

"He makes perfect bows," Steve says. "But he hardly ever uses them himself."

"True," Kevin admits. "The hunt is not my thing. But I thought that you might want a bow. After all, you were the first one of us to kill a wild and dangerous animal."

I remember the rabbit and realize that I am smiling. "Thanks," I say and take the bow and quiver. They feel good in my hands.

At the end of the evening, I am surprised to see Rose and Kevin retire to a single bedroom together. I am less surprised that Steve and Jenny do the same.

Great, I think. And here I am, in the company of a bow and arrows.

Next morning, I wake up early. The sun is cresting the horizon, painting the sky with all colors between orange and purple.

The cold of the tiles in the bathroom bites my naked feet like a gang of angry mice. We don't have running water, but there's a pitcher of the stuff, so I can rinse my mouth. I sorely miss toothpaste and a toothbrush. We'll have to do something about this. The memory of the bad breath of the others makes me gag. Well, here's at least one advantage of not having to share your room with someone else.

My face reflects in a mirror leaning against the wall. In the gloom, my filthy, matted hair hangs listlessly over my shoulders.

I grab the mirror and return to the main room. Searching the antique piece of furniture that holds our dishes, I find a knife. Its edge feels fascinatingly sharp against the skin of my thumb.

Silently, I dress and leave the house—I don't want to wake the others. What I am planning to do begs privacy.

The sun has risen over the chain of mountains to the east, but the air is still crisp, carrying a whiff of winter.

The plants along the path to the lake are rich with morning dew, their water-laden branches crisscrossing my way. When I finally reach the shore, my pants are wet and cold against my legs.

Ghostly tendrils of fog linger over the lake and glow in the rays of the sun.

.I place the mirror against the remains of a wall and sit down in front of it. Taking hold of the knife with clammy fingers, I start cutting my hair.

Later, I contemplate my work in the reflection. My dark blond hair now hardly covers my ears, and its short strands are wild and spiky but still filthy and greasy. I don't remember ever having worn it like this. My face, which used to be on the roundish side, is thin, gaunt. The line of my mouth is narrow, and my stare is hard.

I move a finger along the long, ugly scar extending over my right cheek.

The face staring at me is so different from the girl I was some weeks ago. I will never be her again.

The being that I am now, it feels torn, savage, and ready to kill something.

I return to the house and put the mirror back in its place.

The others are still asleep.

Silently, I find my backpack and pack it with the knife, a few provisions, and some clothing. I need a couple of minutes to find my poker. Then I take my bow, grab a spear, and leave the house.