I do not own I Think We're alone Now.
It is just absolute perfection and I love it.
Home Becomes You
Grace is Raindrops, Del is Hungry Earth
"I was with a boy."
With a boy.
Biblically?
And then the poor lad had what, just, fallen over on her?
It sounded awful.
He tried not to think of it.
He himself had been asleep.
Dozing in relative peace and seclusion.
And when he had awoken, everyone had just been . . . well, dead.
Her.
His mother.
Slumped over her breakfast toast.
And he had thought, oh no, she wasn't even sick, was she?
And he had gone to the phone, tried to place a call.
And no one . . .
". . . are assisting other callers . . ."
. . . had answered.
He had sat on the phone, restless and mildly distraught.
. . . off the car alarm, come on . . .
And increasingly annoyed.
No one had answered and he had eventually hung up the phone . . .
. . . alarm . . . it's just disrespectful . . .
. . . and stepped out onto the heavily shaded porch.
Realising, . . .
. . . going on?
. . . it wasn't just one alarm.
It was many.
And then he had seen old Mrs. . . .
. . . Ramowitz . . .
. . . facedown in her petunias.
And he had slowly, by bits and pieces, . . .
. . . sort of dream . . .
. . . realized that everyone was dead . . .
. . . Twilight Zone?
. . . and it was just him.
Or so he had thought.
But there had also been . . .
What is going on?
. . . things happening outside too.
Sirens going off, a water main burst.
Crashed car.
Not a lot, mind you, the place wasn't a metropolis by any stretch of the imagination.
But there had been . . .
What the hell?
. . . things.
He had almost succumbed himself in those first horrible days, weeks, months.
Paralyzed by what had happened, unable to think, consider how to proceed.
He hadn't cared for the people of his hometown and they hadn't cared for them.
At best, they had tolerated him and vice versa.
But all the same.
The sudden and complete demise of the entire town all at once had been something of a shock.
And he had, thanks to Hollywood and a creative mind, feared for corpse reanimation.
Maybe not zombies exactly.
But something.
And so he had scuttled from necessary place to place, furtive and afraid.
Slept restlessly, tossing and turning.
Unable to survive as was.
Unable to escape in any way or from the is.
Finally, he had begun to clean.
The library at first, his place of solitude.
There had been few bodies there, with advent of Google, Amazon, and Kindle.
But in the early days, it was worse. The bodies were . . . riper.
Heavier.
Smellier.
And wetter.
And he had thrown up several times, cried few, and considered his own suicide once.
But he had overcame, prevailed.
And little by little, life in the apocalypse had become more manageable.
He had cleaned all the streets, one by meticulous one.
Removed the bodies, removed the cars.
The trash that accumulated when no one else is around, or cares, to do it.
He had done it.
One by meticulous one.
Ordered the chaos left over from the abrupt and unexpected end to the world he had always known.
Shut off busted water mains and turned off electricity that would eventually cause destructive, easily out of control fires.
He had done all these things, one by meticulous one, over and over again.
He had done it in silence, slowly and carefully.
He had taken his time.
Because he had the time.
And something to do with it.
He had done it because he must, because it soothed him.
Ordered the chaos, the entrophy.
And left himself with a manageable environment in which to spend the rest of his solitary existence.
Thanks for reading! :)