"Tell me a story."
He requests this just as the sun begins to dawn on another day. They lie on the ground, her head resting on his chest. His fingers lazily trace her spine again and again.
"About what?" she asks.
"Anything. You. I want to know you."
"You already know me better than anyone else."
She moves her head to look at him, and he smiles down at her.
"Yeah, but…I want to know who you were."
She hesitates, settling back onto his chest. The beat of his heart rings in her ear.
Ba-bum. Ba-bum.
She hears him sigh after a minute of silence, resigning himself to her resistance.
"I had a niece," she begins.
The only sign of his surprise is the pause his fingers make in their circuit. They resume after a beat.
"Her name was Ella," she continues in quiet voice. "She had long, brown hair and chocolate eyes. The cutest laugh you'd ever hear. Her birthday was on March 18th. And I remember going to the hospital when she was born, holding her for the first time, and thinking how pretty she was. And wondering how I could love someone so much. Someone I'd just met. Someone who wasn't even mine.
"She was my sister's kid. And when they'd come to visit me, she and I would read a story together every night before she went to bed. Her favorite was The Burlap Bear. And if she woke up really early, she would come into my room, because her mother hated the mornings. She'd crawl into bed and say 'Aunt Liv, it's time to get up!' She used to call me Aunt Liv.
"I took her to the children's museum once. And they had this electronic train display. It was so huge and intricate. The train would go through this little town and a forest and an amusement park. In one section it was snowing, and in another it was summer. And she loved it so much. We must've spent an hour there, watching it, her taking my hand and dragging me around the display to follow the train."
She pauses, and takes a deep breath, feeling the tears running down her cheeks. It's the first time she's let herself willingly remember anyone from before since she'd lost them.
It hurts as much as she thought it would.
But she continues. For him. Because he's already given her so much. Because it's the one thing he asks of her.
"Ella was five when The Purge happened. I was in Boston, and they lived in Chicago. And I wanted to get to them, I tried, but I just…I couldn't…And I didn't save them. They're gone."
"Olivia," he whispers.
She turns further into his chest. He sits up, gathering her in his arms.
"Peter, they're dead."
He shushes her gently, and rocks them, trying to soothe her. She feels his lips press against the top of her head.
"I couldn't save them."
A long, silent moment hangs between them, where she closes her eyes, tries to steady her breathing, focusing solely on the kisses he places in her hair.
"You don't know that," he says finally.
Her eyes snap open.
"You don't know that. They could still be alive. They could be fine."
"Peter."
"Sweetheart, we could go there. We could find them. They may be waiting for you there, and we have to do is go and – "
"Peter," she says again, more forcefully. He stops, as she sits up, looking into his eyes.
"Peter, I met a woman from Chicago a week after it happened. She'd gotten out just as it started. I asked her, and she said that Chicago was gone. No city, no suburbs. They were decimated. There was nothing and no one left. And when she said that, I knew they were gone."
"But Olivia, she could've been wrong. People have survived under terrible, unbelievable circumstances before. Look at us, for God's sake. They could've made it."
She shakes her head.
"No. I know that they're gone. I knew even before that woman said anything to me. As soon as it happened, as he first reports started coming in, I just had this feeling. And I knew they were dead."
He doesn't answer her.
"And then," she tells him, "I was all alone. I had nobody. And I was ashamed. That I couldn't be there for them, that I had failed them. That it was my fault they were dead."
"That's not true," he interrupts her, his words adamant.
"I know that," she promises him. "But that didn't stop me from thinking it. No matter how many times I rationalized it, I still felt guilty. All my friends and family were dead. I was the only one left. How was that possible? Or fair? Or right? And it hurt so much, that I couldn't stand it. So I didn't. I closed myself off, stopped feeling. I came out here, because I didn't want to risk it – having that accountability again. Experiencing that overwhelming remorse. And I became a monster."
"Olivia."
"I did, Peter," she insists. "I know you may not want to believe it, but I hurt so many people without a second thought. So many innocent people. Because I wanted to live, sure. So did they, though. And I never stopped to think about them. I was selfish. And coldhearted. And deadly."
He lays his cheek on top of her head, inhaling slowly.
"You were just trying to survive," he whispers.
"I was doing it the wrong way."
She pauses, and brings her hands up. Her fingers graze over his chest.
She says, "But then something funny happened."
"What's that?"
She takes his hand.
"You found me."
He pulls back, and stares at her intently. Her free hand cups his jaw, thumb moving from his mouth to his chin.
She smiles, almost happily.
"Now I'm not alone anymore."
He leans down, kissing her lips and then her cheek. He keeps his face there, murmuring against her skin.
"And you'll never be alone again."
