Life in the wastes was an unexpected change, to say the least. The cushy vault I grew up in led me to believe that nothing existed outside of the metal walls that confined me. The cramped living space, the decreasing genetic pool, the mundane tasks were what I accepted as life. Nothing more, nothing less. No need to think, no need to question.
I remember spending my days in my bedroom, mom's words framed near my bed. How dad used to read them to me, as if they were "Goodnight Moon". As I grew up, I watched as he would cry in solitude. It was as if my existence only brought up bad memories. While he would sit in his office, the blinds drawn, I would sit in my room, silent, carving my apologies in my skin.
As my feet trudged through the grime that was the vault, and it's corrupt overseer, memories etched and burned. Playing on repeat, as if a record stuck, the needle desperately trying to play the next track. Jonah's white lab coat stained with blood, his pockets filled with old world money. His lifeless body tossed on the floor. The fallen couple who were gunned down by 21 bullets, not 21 guns.
Now I sat in my favorite armchair, the one I had begged Moira to carry from Springvale's abandoned houses. My fingers working the small bundle of nerves, back arching in silence. Hips jutted forward, anticipating a set of hips to clash with mine. The pair that was never there.
My fingers washed of my sin in the kitchen sink, I made quick work of packing. Days and caps spent at Gob's were found to be useful. As I packed away the soft letter on worn paper beneath my pip boy, I left Megaton for DC.
