I step out of his room, feeling the stickiness on my face and the disarray of my hair. My attire is a disheveled mess, making me resemble a clown. I proceed with a slow stride, devoid of any inclination to rush.

No soul graces my sight; perhaps they are napping or engrossed in preparing for the upcoming night. I'm uncertain, yet the path to my room remains eerily quiet. I silently thank providence that no one bore witness to my current state, though deep within, a desire gnaws at me, hoping they had.

Because, at this moment, I yearn for nothing more than to disappear. That incident was a nadir, an abyss of my existence. How could an older man stoop to such depths? I still struggle to comprehend it.

As for his lifeless form? It holds no significance for me. Concealing the bodies would prove futile, inviting scrutiny and suspicion. Unearthed as a would-be body hider, I'd be cast as a cold-blooded murderer.

But what do I fear? After all, I am the victim.

Gradually, step by step, I reach my room, crossing its threshold to familiar sights—the bed, the pillow, the scent of soothing lavender. My frigid heart thaws; it feels akin to returning home after a lengthy battlefront campaign. Perhaps this is akin to their sentiments—the ones who've faced similar struggles.

The room's embrace offers warmth, and in its sanctuary, my dam of emotions shatters, a torrent of tears spilling forth, unbridled.

'WHY? WHY?'

My cries and my sobs echo in the chamber, a lament for the ordeal I've endured. Is it my karmic debt? I weep like a solitary ghost on the floor, alone yet enveloped by the presence of Lucas and me.

I long for Lucas to arrive, to fill this emptiness. Solitude claws at me.

Seated in silence, my tears trace a ceaseless path down my cheeks, staining the ground. Time ebbs away, my sobs and whispers permeating the room, their resonance penetrating even beyond the confines of the door.

In this moment, it's as if I've carved out my own realm, a world where it's just me and my grief.

An hour passed, and there remained an eerie absence of screams. It appeared that no one would investigate the uncle's room anytime soon. I lay on the floor, my gaze tracing patterns on the ceiling, my thoughts consumed by the uncertainty of my future. My parents, my mom, my dad, and my friends came to mind—reminiscing about the days before the apocalypse, when life was akin to the serenity of lily-pads on a pond.

Two hours drifted away. I rose from the floor, seizing the water bottle at my disposal. It became my tool to cleanse myself, both externally and internally, as if I could scrub away his very essence. The taint he left behind felt so repugnant. I scrubbed vigorously, my skin turning red and sore, yet I remained unyielding. This cleansing was imperative.

Three hours transpired. Lucas's stash of water bottles, carefully hidden beneath the bed, was entirely spent on my quest for purification. Draped in fresh attire, bundled under layers of fabric, I began to feel marginally less soiled. The scattered empties were collected and placed in a corner, and then I paced the room in silence, my thoughts spanning every corner of my heart, heavy with melancholy.

Four hours elapsed. The room was rid of the last vestiges of water, leaving me seated in solitude, a void longing for my parents' embrace. I reclined on the bed, my gaze drawn to the pristine white expanse above me. My voice was inching back, though words remained trapped in my throat. Even in this solitary space, fear clung to me like a shroud.

Five hours slipped by. Footsteps resonated outside an auditory lifeline that rekindled a spark in my heart. Solitude was suffocating, and the prospect of his return ignited a blaze of hope. Never had we been apart for such an extended duration since we embarked on this journey together. The presence of Lucas, it seemed, was something I had taken for granted.

Swiftly, I stood, positioning myself on the edge of the bed, ready to step out. But an unbidden thought plummeted into my mind, a mental explosion.

'Is he here?'

'Should I confess?'

I halted, thrown into disarray.

“What am I supposed to say?”

My voice quivered, reflecting my turmoil.

Amidst the approaching footsteps, I wrestled with the resurfacing memories, grappling with a rising tide of anxiety.

The footfalls neared the door, and as if a stranger inhabited me, my body froze.

Each step resonated like a heartbeat.

This was not the Lucy he knew—vulnerable, feeble, and gripped by fear.

Lowering my head, I endeavored to suppress the torrent of tears threatening to cascade forth. Yet, like the convergence of long-dormant rivers, tears welled up, overcoming my defenses.

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A solitary droplet fell.

Then another.

My cheek dampened, my fingers clutching the bedsheet, as the door creaked open.

Staring at the floor, I struggled to restrain my emotions, but the tears defied my command, rolling down my cheeks.

The warmth of a tear.

His foot came into view, his steps echoing his approach. He closed the door, removed his shoes, and drew near. He stopped.

Dread clung to me.

Tears surged forth, my struggle to compose myself proving futile.

Lucas seemed to sense something awry. I observed as his foot retraced its path, checking the locks, before turning his attention back to me.

His words reverberated in my mind.

“Lucy, what happened? Tell me…”

Those words tore down the dam I'd constructed. My battle to stay strong had crumbled, and the floodgates opened. Tears cascaded, drop by drop, like morning dew following a night of rain.

Lucas noticed the empty water bottles amassed in the corner of the room. He settled on the bed beside me and produced a chocolate bar, extending it to me.

At this moment, receiving a chocolate bar might seem out of place, but Lucas is a genuinely caring and considerate person.

My eyes still brimmed with tears. Lucas reached for a tissue box and handed it to me. “Use this. If it's too personal, you don't have to tell me.”

I managed a smile as I accepted the tissues. He didn't comment on the state of my eyes—red and swollen from relentless crying. A simple nod was his response.

“Lucas.”

“Hmm?”

His face registered confusion. That expression, his look of bewilderment, is something I've come to appreciate. It's the look he wears when grappling with something unfamiliar or when he can't quite comprehend. This is a far better countenance than what I've been subjected to earlier—a face that had exuded only lust and anger. Now concern and worry shone in his eyes.

“You're an incredible friend.”

“Really?”

I reassured him with a smile. I knew he didn't hold himself in high regard, but he had saved me in more ways than one—physically and emotionally.

“Yes, you truly are.”

Lucas took a moment to digest my words as he deftly unwrapped the chocolate bar for me.

“Lucy, you're a great friend, too.”

His words were a comforting balm, whether he realized it or not. At this moment, when my parents' fate was uncertain and my friends had forsaken me to safeguard their own lives, Lucas remained steadfast by my side. He once confessed that I was his first real friend, the first person he felt truly close to.

“Really? Thank you, Lucas.”

With gratitude hanging in the air, I sat in silence, savoring the chocolate bar. It was a modest interlude while I allowed my tears to subside.

Then Lucas's voice broke through the stillness. “I got this from the mall.”

He began showing me the items he had retrieved from there, even the tampon he had scavenged from the purses of the deceased.

I couldn't help but chuckle at his account, his ear turning a shade of red while he recounted it.

“Lucas, did you know you're one of the kindest people I've ever known?”

I finished the chocolate bar, and Lucas fell into a contemplative silence.

“You do understand I'm not all that good, right?”

“I do. But you're at least a decent human being, not a cold-blooded murderer, devoid of reason.”

Indeed, Lucas always tries to reassure me whenever the weight of those deaths I caused weighs heavily on my conscience. His words are like a lifeline in these dark times. Is it a way to rationalize our actions, a coping mechanism for the guilt? I can't be certain, but having someone to offer solace in such moments is invaluable.

Lucas doesn't offer a response this time. I'm certain he's mulling over the matter. He often praises my academic prowess, and I trust his judgment.

I push aside the haunting memories of this afternoon's ordeal as I take a sip from the water; he handed me. The act triggers a distant memory—back to the days when I would weep over a failed math exam, fearing my parents' disappointment. It was a desperate desire to earn their pride, to prove myself worthy.

While my parents' love is unwavering, I've come to understand that unconditional affection can be strained. I recall the day my eyes swelled from excessive crying. I never shared that pain with them. In the months that followed, I turned to food for solace, a balm for my wounded emotions.

“Feast on food when sorrow knocks.” Someone once shared this insight with me—the transient contentment that arises from consuming a hearty meal. It's true, to an extent. Yet now, the prospect of satiating hunger feels like a luxury, with food scarce and danger lurking in every corner.

Lucas changed everything for me. Without him, I would have perished, ignorant of the system that now governs our world. While some might argue that relying on others hinders personal growth and survival, I believe there's strength in our partnership.

In this new reality, Lucas and I share the same standing and treat each other as equals, as friends. Rather than isolating ourselves, we've chosen to grow together. A glance at Lucas confirms his contemplative silence, fixated on the water bottle. I offer a faint smile, appreciating his respect for boundaries.

“Even without the confines of law, we should uphold our own.”

The embrace of drowsiness starts to envelop me. It might stem from the torrents of tears and struggles or the sheer mental and physical exhaustion. In a mere moment or two, darkness descends, and I slip into slumber.