1
When he died
I grew up in a vault outside of Washington D.C. It was suffocating being cramped in isolation under the ground. It wasn't much but it was safe. I took it all for granted until the night dad left. Maybe even until he died.
"Run...Run!"
His voice travels in mind like an echo. The hurt and pain the loss has kept me from sleeping. My eyes are sore from the overflowing of tears and my nose is rubbed raw from my dirty sleeve. The sympathetic stares and nods just add to the fire. They know. It must be real. He's really gone.
I slouch in a chair with a whisky bottle loosely gripped in my hand. There is a mirror across the room that displays my reflection. My face is flushed of all color, eyes red, and tangled hair tied back in a bun. I try to avoid my own gaze but my eyes seem to return to the mirror.
Footsteps shuffle in the room. I don't bother moving. The man sits across the table. It's the asshole that hated my father from abandoning Project Purity when I was born. He didn't enjoy the idea of me returning with dad.
After hearing the news of my father's death, he apologized. It doesn't help. Nothing does. The whisky only numbs the pain.
He sits for a moment before saying anything. My eyes watch the surface of the table. Clearing his throat he shifts in his chair.
"Look I'm sorry. For being an ass and...well." He trails off. I look at him and I know he is genuinely apologetic. The tears welled up in my eyes and the sobs return in my throat. He gulps. I nod in thanks.
"He is… I mean was- ah shit." He says running his fingers through his hair. Nerves and guilt. I try to stop crying to relax him.
"Daniel it's okay." I say after a large gulp of whisky. He watches the bottle sit back on the table and I shrug. More silence.
"Want a drink?" I offered. He nods and I hand over the bottle. Daniel and I friendship evolved by late nights of heavy drinking for the next few weeks. After too many hangovers we switched to nuka-colas. At this point, Daniel was my only friend.