Those Who Remain (Book 2) by Priscila Santa Rosa Page B

they were ready. Or when I told her about a really good movie I just had seen, nodding happily without really understanding a word I said. The smile she reserved for Dad’s good days. The one she opened up when a student made her proud. When I made her proud.
    “I’m sorry, Ma. I’m so sorry. I screwed up. I fucked up. How am I going to live without you? Half the time I don’t even know how to be human. I’m just a fucking dumb idiot. I need you.”
    “You are going to be fine. More than fine—you are going to be great. You’ll find happiness again, Danny. You’ll do the right thing, and keep the town safe. I have faith in you. Just watch your language, all right? For your Ma.”
    I let out a half-laugh, half-sob.
    She places a hand on my shoulder. “I love you, son.”
    “I love you too, Mom.”
    “See you on the other side. But not for a long, long time, okay? I want grandsons.”
    I gulp, feeling like a stone is stuck in my throat. “Okay.”
    She closes her eyes. “I’m ready.”
    Someone else pulls the trigger. Someone else takes her into his arms and hugs her cold body against his chest. He touches her stiff hands. He cries and begs. There is nothing else left here, no one still alive. Two empty shells, dark holes of nothingness.
    I place the gun in someone’s hands. I them tell to take care of… of the body. Then, I walk away. I don't think I even breathe. I can't feel my feet, or my hands, or my lips. I don't care.
    I keep walking, and walking. If I had a choice, I would walk on forever and hope somehow, someway, I stop existing along the way.
    I blink at my front door, unsure of how I got there. The stairs greet me, and no one else. I take off my dirty clothes and throw them in the laundry basket. Laundry. I never did laundry in my whole life. Someone else did that. How pathetic. I sit on the corner of my bed, hands on my knees. The wall ahead of me is the same. Twenty years of movie posters. Collector edition signed posters. All trash.
    I get up. My hands find the corner of a poster. I tear it up, off the wall. The sound is strange, but not terrible. It's curious how ripping apart paper feels like dying. One by one, I rip them off the wall. Rip. Tear. Repeat. When the walls are empty, and the floor is filled with scraps of actors' faces, I sit down on the bed once more.
    The wall is empty, but it still feels wrong. Undeserving. Unfitting. Stupid. Idiotic. Dumb. Incapable. Too slow, too blind.
    The computer goes to the ground, its monitor cracking. The desk follows it. It doesn't help. It doesn't change anything. The wardrobe goes next. Still nothing. My collection of statues breaks so easily; I can't even understand how… Someone kept dusting them off every day without breaking them. DVDs, old CDs and tapes. Comics, mangas, graphic novels.
    Trash. All fucking trash.
    When it hurts too much to throw things around the room, I let myself fall on the bed. My eyes won't close. There is nothing to see, no light shines. Yet I can’t close my eyes.
    I hear Roger's voice sometimes. My body refuses to move. Can I stop now? Can I just disappear?
    The sun hurts my eyes, but they won't close. Then darkness fills the room, but I can't sleep.
    A pebble hits my window. Then another.
    “Danny?”
    That's Roger, right?
    “Danny, just let me in.”
    Did I close the door and the windows? I did, didn't I? I locked it up. Zombies are out there, after all. Somewhere.
    “If you won't let me in, I'm going to climb this tree. Are you there? Danny?”
    The voice fades away, but the possibility of him getting inside scares the hell of out me. I bolt off the bed, out of the bedroom. I'm in the garage, grabbing wood, hammer and nails. I block the front door, block the back door, the first and second floor windows.
    When I'm done, I let out a laugh. For five minutes straight, I can't stop crackling like a crazy idiot. My stomach hurts, my mouth is dry and my eyes sting. My feet take me to the kitchen.
    I drink water from the