Chapter One: Rose Petals

"What remains of a rose when every petal is plucked?"

There's a certain feeling that fills your heart after a kill that could've resulted in your death. It's a mix of emptiness and shakiness. Your mind is on overdrive, I guess. And all you feel in the pit of your stomach is that it could've been you. I know I already went over this, but it's one of those things that really—stick.

You really never understand the severity of things like that until you live it. It's like you imagine it to be something like something out of Fallout, you know? Okay maybe not entirely like that, but you get the gist. You do what you have to do and you move on. Yeah that's not how it works to be honest. It's a lot more—emotional.

Every step down those stairs was like falling through the heavens. I had walked up and down these stairs literally thousands, even tens of thousands of times. But this was different. It's just—hard to deal with. Knowing that you just killed your neighbor's dog after it had made a chewtoy of your mother. Just—I wasn't handling it well.

I looked one last time into the kitchen. Yeah, it wasn't like I remembered it. Drawers were everywhere with silverware and broken fallen from the cabinets. But there she was slumped against one of the cabinets. Dad would've lost it if the kitchen ever looked like this.

Not a word can describe the flood of thoughts that filled my mind as I looked upon her. My mother looked like Death himself had swept over her. Her dark hair was patchy—at best. The warm face that I had grown accustomed to seeing after school had grown to look almost—skeletal and pale. "M-mom?" I whispered as I cradled her head in my arms.

I was hoping that there would be some answer. Some form of response. But there was no response. My head bent down to her forehead and I couldn't help but shake a little. "Come on, Mom. Wake up! It's gonna be okay!" But she didn't say anything. That's when my eyes grew wet with tears.

"Come on, Mom. Wake the fuck up!" I screamed. "Wake up, Mom!" I felt the first tear roll down my cheeks. It was like a trail of fire carving its way across my face until it dripped onto her face.

My eyes looked down at her face and I kissed her forehead. "P-please, Mom," I struggled to utter at a whisper's volume. "Please—just wake up." She didn't move. She didn't speak. Her lifeless corpse just rest in my arms and a trail of tears slid down my face and splashed onto hers.

I don't know how long I sat there with her in my arms as I just cried. I couldn't control it. All the things I had ever said to her in anger came crashing at me like a hammer. Every time I yelled at her. Every time we fought. And at the head of this hammer was the fact that I would never get to tell her how sorry I was for it all. How fucking sorry I was. How I should've been a better son. How I shouldn't have been such an ungrateful brat!

I used the sleeve of my hoodie to wipe the tears away and just looked down at her. It was with that same sleeve that I did what I could to wipe the vomit away. I couldn't do a lot, but I just—I just wanted to try to give her a look of being peaceful. But I failed her. Yet again.

It was with tears in my eyes that I forced a smile as I looked down at her. "M-mom," I whimpered. "I know that you're in a better place. And I kn-know that you're up there, in Heaven, looking down at me. And if you can hear this—I'm so sorry. For everything I ever did wrong. I'm so fucking sorry, Mom." And that's when the tears fell again. I just wanted to hear her voice one more time. That's all I wanted. Was that so much to fucking ask?

My eyes looked down at her as I got to my feet. Her lifeless corpse was just there—not moving. It was in that moment that I uttered a whisper, "I love you, Mom, but—I have to go." I just prayed that she would understand. I just—I couldn't stay here.

I slowly walked out of the kitchen, and then the living room and looked back one last time at the home I had come to know. But I would never regard this place as home again. It simply—it just wasn't anymore. It took every ounce of willpower I had to walk out of the front door one last time. The door closed behind me and I knew that would be the last time I'd ever hear it close. Goodbye, 122 Shadowhill Drive, may your next residents be as happy as we were.

My heart was low as I walked away from the home I had come to know. But it had to happen. It was as I trekked away that I glanced to see the SUV still in the driveway. How had I not noticed it before? I darted for it. And then I saw him in it—head face down into the steering wheel and he looked just like Mom. In the backseat was my brother and he looked just like dad.

A part of me felt like screaming. A part of me felt like crying. A part of me felt like just slamming my head into the asphalt until I didn't feel anything anymore. But in that moment, I just fell to my knees and looked up at the unending sea of grey. One question ran through my mind: Why? Why was this happening? Why them? Why wasn't it me? Why?!

I don't know how long I sat there on my knees. It could've been five minutes or five hours, but I just knew that I had given up. In a day—I had lost everything. You never really grasp how important your family is until they're gone. That morning, I was worried about not making it to Tom's party. And you know what? I didn't care anymore—I had lost everything that ever mattered. Everyone who ever mattered—I mean truly mattered—was dead. And I wanted to scream, because I never realized it until it was too late.

When a man loses everything he cares about, he breaks. I guess I did in that moment, because I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I just wanted to quit. I didn't want to do it anymore. I was done. But life's never that easy—at least not for me. I couldn't give up, because that just—they would've wanted me to go on, I guess.

It was with little to say that I just continued walking down the middle of the road. Like I said before, we all died. Just not all of us were lucky enough to truly die. Those who weren't that lucky—they were just like me. We were just survivors—trying to etch out a living in a world that didn't want them. We, the last of humanity, were the truly damned.