From Burning Embers: Young Adult Novel

The opening 3 Chapters from my Young Adult fantasy novel. A coming of age love story set in a post-apocalyptic world without adults. 

2^nd of August 2014

Are you even listening she says to me. I could lie and say I was but sometimes her talk is so boring. So I tell the truth and she sticks her tongue out and frowns at me the way she always does. She knows I never listen. Its water collecting time again and I don’t want to go out there. Last night was too noisy. I’ve tried to tell her I think we should wait a day but she’s so stubborn. I’m going crazy cooped up in this place she tells me so eventually I agree. Outside the fires are still blazing from the stock pile of cars that had been torched in the early morning. Their car alarms had woken me up in the middle of the night and I couldn’t get back to sleep after that. 

I’m surprised the battery still had enough juice in it for the damn things to go off. Yet there they are three smashed up cars burning in the road only a few houses away from our building. This place is mental. The streets are fairly empty today. I guess the fire must have freaked the kids. It sure as hell freaked me. Hopefully that gang has moved on by now. Bloody kids. You’d think it would be the teens creating trouble wouldn’t you. That’s always how the news told us it was. 

Troublesome teens and all that. Nope, it’s 10 year old boys that are the worst. They work in packs like bloody hounds sniffing out trouble. There’s no taming them. If only their mothers could see ‘em now!

The stream is an age away. Takes nearly a whole two hours just to get to the thing and when we get there half of the kids have already got to it first from what I can make out. We fill our bottles with what is left. Three large bottles isn’t too bad and should last us a few days. I’m sat there on the bank in the hot sun just looking at those bottles. The water, as filthy as it is, makes me salivate. I’m so thirty I could drink a gallon of it. Ah to see a gallon of water would be a dream. I’m not even sure I know what a gallon would look like. Hmmm, but I know what a swimming pool full would. Gosh I’d strip naked right there and then and drink it dry as I swam.

Back at home we sieve the water over and over with the sieve mum used to use for rice and peas. Once the large chucks of muck and dirt are out we fill the grill pan with more wood and paper, set it alight and boil the water in a large metal pot on top. We open the windows of course to stop the place from smoking up too much. Doesn’t matter about the smoke alarm; that hasn’t worked for years. We sit and chat away the hours while the water bubbles and the ceiling becomes even more caked in black soot. Liz likes to talk about boys. Sometimes I think that’s all we ever talk about. 

Boys this and boys that. She flicks through one of my old magazines whilst twiddling her golden hair and pointing to all the men she’d shag. I don’t have that many magazines so I already know the next three guys she’ll choose. There’s a muscly topless man in a perfume ad, Ashton Kutcher and a vaguely hot boy called Sam who was interviewed on sexiest female hairstyles… he chose pigtails. I wonder where Sam is now. In the magazine it says he’s 17 so there’s still a chance he’s alive today. I wonder if he’d still choose pigtails. Plaits are better Sam.

In the afternoon the bells ring and those who believe and some who don’t leave their buildings and walk up to the church. I don’t feel like being preached at to today but Liz wants to see people. There’s nothing better to do she says so off we go out onto the street to walk with all the other children. I remember when the bells rang last year there were nearly double the amount of kids out. They’re not lasting long on their own I think. All the same it’s still a good turnout for the pastor. Going to church isn’t like it used to be. There aren’t any benches no more so you either stand at the back or sit cross-legged in the middle if there’s space. The pastor doesn’t stand at the front anymore neither. Instead he walks into the middle of the room and preaches 360 degrees. 

Sometimes he spins around so quick trying to catch our eyes mid-speech I swear he’s going to tip over.

Most days it’s the same dry story and the same waffle. It’s crap surely. How can anyone believe it after what’s happened? It’s so dry. Some days the gang kids come in and cause trouble. They take a kid and kick em senseless for no reason or they set alight a girls dress for fun. Cruel wild kids they are. They don’t ever touch the pastor though. He’s like god himself; one of the last grownups standing.

Some kids say it’s to do with having sex. Second you have it you lay down dead right there an then; like a virus or summin. Some say it’s hormones that you only get once puberty’s hit and some go wild and claim it’s all zombies and terrorists; we’ve heard it all round here. The young kids, the ones who’ve only started growing after it all happened, well of course they believe its judgement day. They’re his flock alright. I dunno, maybe, I’m not sure what’s true.

There are still some grownups left of course but not many. 

Pastor Mitchell’s one of them. They say cause he’s a pastor he’s never had sex and that’s why he’s still alive. That’s rubbish. Pastor Mitchell had a Mrs Mitchell once and we all know they weren’t just holding hands. Kids like to pretend though. I suppose it gives them a reason. A reason they’re here and their parents aren’t.

Today he tells us that it was judgement day and God left the innocent on earth. I tell him he isn’t no fucking innocent so whys he still here then. He says he’s the shepherd left to look after the sheep. Stupid prick. In this world it’s only the wolves that survive.  Sooner or later it will be the wolves that eat him alive. Some kids like that fairy-tale crap though and he doesn’t get a bad turn out to service. Probably more than he ever did before this happened.  

Sometimes I go just to hear the stories and to sing the songs. I love to sing – loud and booming I do it. When I was 10 I wanted to be a famous singer, like a celebrity, Britney, Miley, Ellie, but they don’t exist anymore. Well, not like they used to anyways. I guess you could call Mike Faulkner a kind of celebrity. All the girls think he’s well fit and he’s king when he walks the streets with his gang behind him. Maybe he’s the celebrity now. So maybe I do still have a chance too. Who knows?

The church is cold. The younger children start to cry and the nice girls wipe away their tears and sit them on their laps. 

After the service Pastor Mitchell calls me over and tells me not to swear in church and that I won’t be welcome if I continue that behaviour. I tell him to fuck off and that I’ll see him next week. He doesn’t say anything but grabs the large golden cross hung from his neck and watches me leave.

There’s a movie advert in the bus shelter we walk past called The Cabin in the Woods. It didn’t make it to the cinemas before the virus broke. I often look at it and wish I could have watched it. It looks quite good I think. I wonder if somewhere in America the big film reel is locked up still waiting to be watched. Probably not though, if the Yanks are anything like the English it will have been burnt to a cinder years ago. They would have first burnt it for safety, if it survived that then burnt for pleasure and now burnt simply for warmth. 

Americas pretty hot though right so I guess they don’t need warmth like us? Damn, wish I listened more in geography.

As the virus took the eldest grown-ups those still left burnt their grandparents to stop the spread. They often used cinemas and churches; buildings big enough to house mass cremations. A tonne of petrol and a match and the place would burn for days. As the virus spread to younger and younger people more giant bonfires torched the sky at night. 

Along with the bonfires came the riots. They used bottles of alcohol which they lit on fire. They’d throw them at the army or the police or each other. We all watched the TV until the last channel went. It was early spring when the last grown-ups fell and some nights I thought I’d freeze in my bed. Back then fires were scary but now a fire keeps you warm and safe.

That night I dreamt of my own little cabin in the woods and a thousand fires melting the forest around it to nothingness.

3^rd of August 2014

It’s late morning and Liz is still asleep. I’ve been awake for a while now lying on my back, hands behind my head looking at the banners she hung up. The triangular bunting reads ‘Happy Birthday’ in big yellow letters. Whilst the banner on the back of the door says ‘Birthday Girl’ in pink sparkles. Last week I turned 14. We didn’t do much for it. I don’t think you can bake a birthday cake on a grill pan fire? Instead we had a pretend party. We dressed up in my mum’s clothes and danced around the lounge to pretend music. I imagined the disco lights and the cocktails and how cool it would have been to go to a real nightclub.

Sometimes my brother would try his luck in The Fox pub down the road. Most times he and his friends would get chucked out but sometimes they’d get away with it. Usually if they went in before 6pm. He said when that happened it was the coolest thing ever and easily made up for the embarrassment of getting kicked out.

To make it an authentic night out we drank red wine and did shots of Bombay Sapphire dad had left in his booze cupboard. Luke didn’t like it he said, that’s why it was still there. My brother and Pete drank the booze cupboard dry when our parents died. I was never allowed; Luke told me I was too young. Since he’s gone now I can do what I want I guess and at my birthday night club I wanted to drink. I laugh to myself looking up at those banners remembering how sick I was the next day. I think it was the worst feeling I’ve ever felt. I bet having the virus feels better. I honestly thought I was going to die that night. I was sick six times, retching and heaving until nothing came out at all.

Liz said it was because I didn’t line my stomach which means eat rice or pasta. She said she’d saved a pot noodle she’d scavenged especially for the occasion. I could only find a tomato and basil cuppa soup. That must have been the problem. It’s a shame though I think because it’s kind of put me off drinking again. I mean it felt lovely at first. I felt invincible and ridiculously happy. Life felt easy and silly. It felt addictive. We laughed and danced like fools and forgot who we were for a while. But then, before I knew it I felt like I really had lost myself. It crept up on me and bit me. I felt out of control. I was frightened and so tired focusing my eyes as the room spun. Why the hell grown-ups drank so much I’ll never know. I don’t think I liked it.

Liz is younger than me. When we first met she didn’t actually know how old she was. It’s not that strange a thing. Loads of kids don’t know and don’t celebrate their birthday. They were too young to keep ticking off the calendar days to keep track. I probably wouldn’t have known now either if Luke hadn’t of done it for us. It was pretty smart.

He’d get an A at school at least every week and mum and dad would be so proud and hang his essay from a magnet on the fridge. I’d look at it and be jealous but I’m happy for it now. When Liz told me she didn’t know her age we took a guess each first. I guessed older. She felt older and talked older. Then I took her up to my flat and showed her the 2012 calendar Luke had used. I explained that the last grown-ups died in December time and she remembered her little sister crying because Santa hadn’t visited their house that year.

She’d told me her birthday was on the 15th of February, the day after Valentine’s Day. From that we worked out that she had turned 13 this year and was 11 when the virus started.

The oldest kid I know that’s still alive is a boy called Mark Jenkins. He lived in our block. He was nearly 19 when the virus hit and was certain it would get him as it took his 16 year old brother in weeks. But instead he survived and lived to turn 19 and even 20.

As the weeks went on and he just kept on living he began to get more reclusive. He stayed out of kid’s way and scavenged for book after book. He thought his body might be immune, that he might hold some sort of key to getting rid of the virus. He believed it so much so that he raided the doctor’s two streets away and began drawing small vials of blood from himself, offering them out to anyone that walked through. It was pretty sick, I hate needles. I think he thought they might come across a grown-up who knew how to look at blood properly and they would find the special immunity in his and copy it for other kids.

One day a woman as old as my mum passed through the town and when given the vial asked him to travel with her. She was looking for the same thing. Searching for a base or laboratory to test her blood too. He collected up a few of his possessions and left that day. No looking back, no nothing. 

He didn’t say goodbye to any of us who had been his friend for over a year. He just left.  I haven’t seen him since and that was about 5 months ago. I like to think he’s still alive somewhere. And that he and the lady found what they were looking for and vials of vaccine are being made in a factory to be rolled out just in time for my 16th. Everyone will be cured and in twenty years’ time we’ll all look back and laugh at what weird shit went on it those four years.

Liz is up now and pottering around in the kitchen. It’s tinned peaches for breakfast. I can hear the can opener crunching the metal from here. We eat and chat a little before getting dressed and heading out. I choose long blue knee high socks with denim shorts and a football tee-shirt of my brothers. My mum would never let me out in these slutty socks I think. Liz puts on a misty purple mini skirt, big hoop earrings and a crop top. I want to scavenge and she wants to chat so we go our separate ways. She wouldn’t get far in her high heels anyway.

Liz loves to talk. I did mention that didn’t I? She loves gossip. She loves people. And, well, if I’m being honest, and the goss is really good, I’m quite fond of listening. I guess that’s why we work. Always, she’s met this group who wandered into town a couple of days ago you see. She wants to keep up to date with all their gossip. I prefer to scavenge. I’ll listen later. Get the details without all the crap that comes with it or having to be nicey-nicey to people to find it out in the first place.

Scavenging is way more fun. I think it’s in my blood. When I was little my mum used to drag me around charity shops and endless car boots, it’s pretty much doing the same really.  Though you were never allowed to call it scavenging and you always had to carry loose change.

There’s a nosiness in it that I like. Looking at what other people have and what it tells you about who they were. Objects can’t lie like new friends can. An example perhaps? 

So, the last passing group Liz spoke to said that they saw a real wild lion walk right past them on the other side of the road, another girl said she had got the virus but managed to fight it off. Wow, what a story, what great gossip, what bullshit. Yes, they could be telling the truth perhaps. A lion could have escaped a zoo and the girl could have survived. Yet where were the other zoo animals and where were the red blister scars?

Objects though, personal belongings, I think they’re different. You can tell me all day long that you don’t play with kids toys anymore but when I find Sylvanian Families and a Barbie under your bed words mean nothing. Objects in someone’s home are tiny pieces of them. A clue to who they are or were. As clear as if they were standing right there in front of you.

Like the objects in my mum and dad’s bedroom. They show me they had different tastes in music by the ‘his and hers’ cd piles on either side of the CD player. The pretty smart dress hung on the outside of the wardrobe tells me that mum wanted dad to take her out for dinner that weekend. Sharing underwear and sock draws showed neither were neat freaks and the dog-eared photo of each other they both had hidden in their top bedside table draws showed me they loved each other with a secret intensity only they shared. Those photos in particular. If I hadn’t of found that I would have never of believed it. Their love was strictly between them and something too precious to share with the world. I want a love like that.

Then my brother’s room by contrast with its FHM model posters on the wall and stolen hubcaps told me he was a boy’s boy. It told me that he liked boobs and blondes and bikes and fights. Yet the small box under his bed filled with love letter from his girlfriends and birthday cards from me, mum and dad showed me that real beauty, be it in looks or in act, would always come before boobs for him. I’m especially glad I snooped to find that or else I couldn’t have bared his immaculate lie.

I never saw Pete’s parents’ house or his room. He was Luke’s best friend not mine. But he brought with him a smart small tan leather journal and a posh pen with his name engraved on the side. If I didn’t know it already that would have told me he was an only child. Secretive, self-indulgent and a bit spoilt. The stack of photos and family albums showed me family meant everything to him and the way he stared at them every day showed me he had lost everything too.

Liz brought with her a collection of hair accessories, mostly pink, three skirts to every top and a photo of her and her family and another of her and her friends. Being girly was important to her as was seeing herself surrounded by people who cared about her. She slept with a blue dinosaur which was so out of her character I knew instantly it would have belonged to someone else - it belonged to her baby sister. Interestingly she is one of the few kids to carry their passport which told me she’s not as ditzy as she makes out.

Now I guess it’s only fair you know about me. I suppose I should tell you something. My room is painted sky blue with drawings I’ve done over the years blue tacked to the walls.

They’re all sketches of people drawn quickly and with lots of rubbings out. My cupboard is full of clothes I’ve chosen mainly from boot sales with my mum- an unorganised and colourful collection. I don’t like that though, I wish they were neat. My favourite item is a retro tee with My Little Pony printed on the front. My sparring gloves and pads are in the corner of the room and I have mostly adventure novels on my bookshelf. There is nothing particularly girly about my room I don’t think. Yet if you look close enough you can see it there. 

The love heart doodles on my notepads and the A.K. 4 G.E.W. scrawled in black marker across the inside of my wooden bedframe. The teddies hiding under my bed and the red lip gloss in my pen pot. It’s all there... exactly who I am... if you dared to look close enough.

I think I’m quite good at sussing people. Perhaps that’s why I don’t tend to like most I meet. Sometimes I feel like I see them too clearly. Or maybe, I’m just a bitch, I dunno.

I’m out scavenging and I’m standing in an old woman’s house. Her name was Joyce James and I’ve stood here a hundred times before even though I never knew her. My mum used to clean her house for a little while back when I was very small. I used to come along and watch under strict instruction to touch nothing. Years and years and years have passed but her house stood still. The room didn’t change at all. She didn’t update the furniture or change the wall colour. 

The china plates still hang above the door and photos of her grandchildren still stand above the fireplace. The rug is still the same just faded with time. I come here a lot and stand in the room not touching anything. It’s like being teleported back in time. Standing here I’m five again. I can almost make out the sound of the hoover and the room so full of dust it tickles my nose. I don’t particularly like the objects in this room, on their own they mean nothing to me at all but all together, placed exactly as they are they are the most precious of things.

Joyce’s lounge is homely and functional. The lack of change makes me think she didn’t care for trends or fashion but the reupholstered stool shows she still liked to keep things looking smart. She has a whole row on her bookshelf dedicated to bibles and religious readings. Proudly displaying herself as a devout and good Christian woman. Nothing is flashy in this room. Nothing accept one trinket. 

Stood on the armchair table, next to the paisley napkins and sweet jar is something out of place. Perhaps it was bought for her and she kept it so close out of politeness. I wonder what it meant or if she could even use it. It’s a Nintendo DS; and not the old version either. Very strange. I thought at first sight it was one of her grandchildren’s but from the photos on the walls there are no granddaughters and this DS is baby pink. There is her secret. At least that’s what I think. She may have been traditional, smart, clean and god-fearing but locked-away and only shared with friends – she was fun. Mum said she was a stingy, picky old bint. Must have vault-locked it.

I hear Liz’s voice and I leave the lounge without touching the door. She says she found out some good goss about a boy in the group. I ask what it is as we walk back to the flat but she won’t tell me.

She’d have got an A* if teasing was a subject at school.

She skips along the street as if her secret were so good even her body can’t help but rejoice for it. I ask her a few more times before I tell her I don’t care what it is anyway. I’m getting tired of her now. She’s upset her game didn’t last as long. She stops me in the street and holds both my hands. She gets close to my face and looks at me for a while with big open eyes. Then she turns her head and whispers in my ear 'Adam fancies me’.

19^th of August 2014

I’m standing in the middle of the camp. It’s late, probably around 11pm, and the moon is halved, pouring over the tents and the people running. At first I don’t understand. Then, a little in the distance I see it. Broken out about 20 tents down, a scuffle and there’s chaos. The sound of panic fill the air and for the first time in my life I hear real gunshots. They are louder than I imagined and the very sound of them pierces my eardrums and gets straight into my heart. I can’t see faces. It must be army to have guns. Perhaps they are fighting them off. I’m sure it will all just settle down and be fine in a few minutes. I hope so as my feet won’t move. My whole body feels heavy. I feel like an animal; wild and scared. 

I can hear the shouting get closer but I can’t pull my eyes from it or my legs. I can’t move. I know I’m dreaming but my mind forces me to play the role. When I wake tears stream down my face. You’re having a nightmare Gemma it’s all ok your safe says Liz stroking my hair tenderly.

I calm my breathing and sit on the sofa in the lounge. The purple cord grooves of the fabric feel comforting as I rub my finger over them backward and forward. I’ve got my left thumb tucked into its palm, holding it tightly with my other four fingers. It’s something I’ve always done. I think about how I don’t appreciate Liz like I should. She has one of the kindest hearts of any girl our age.

She comes in and pours me a glass of water without saying a word. Then she gently places it down on the floor by my side. I don’t make eye contact with her but I can tell she is taking little glances at me all the time. Meticulously assessing me and what help and care I might require. She decides that I need more alone time which I do and goes into the other room. Ten minutes later she walks softly back out under the guise of getting herself a drink. She pours the murky water into a glass and purposefully catches my eye. She takes a long sip and, without word or look or hesitation, she kneels on the sofa cushion next to me and grabs me in her arms. She cuddles me like my mum used to. Her chin rests of the top of my head and her white cotton t-shirt dampens with my tears. She would make a brilliant mother. 

She doesn’t speak and she doesn’t move until long after my tears have stopped. She waits until my soul has stopped summersaulting. Eyes dry I hug her back and thank her. She smiles a special smile reserved only for occasions like this and walks out to get changed. No words need to be said. Nothing needs to change. I’m glad I’m not alone.

We’ve had a string of hot sunny days this year. If The Sun newspaper was still running they’d probably call it a heat wave and that we need to conserve water because the reservoirs are running dangerously low. Or that Brits should prepare for the hottest three weeks in 150 years as skin cancer cases soar. That wouldn’t be true though, I doubted it was ever really true before the virus. No, it’s just not been raining and today is another non-rainy day.

When we head outside the street is oddly full. All the primaries are out on bikes or scooter. Some are skipping and others have hula hoops. Two run past with water guns. No water in them of course, even a primary knows that water is precious. It’s nice to see actually. Everyone laughing and playing. The noise of happiness: it is deafening. Girls shriek as the boys lift their skirts or kiss their lips. Chewy giggles and bellowing tummy laughs erupt sporadically. Boys shout at each other. They can’t talk. They shout.  I stand and watch them a while. Liz is already busy talking to two young girls who sprinted over and held her hands upon seeing her.

These kids, the kids growing up after the virus, are different though. I watched a documentary on TV once about an orphanage in rural China. It showed you clips of the building and the classes which if you stretched your imagination a little weren’t really all too different from home. When they showed the kids though playing unaware in the playground I couldn’t relate. They played so rough I thought they were fighting. I remember thinking I was a bit mad. Kids here, before the virus, would be pulled off each other and scolded by mummy for even a sign of heavy handedness. Watching the primaries on the street reminded me of those kids. They were wild kids that clouted, bit and kicked. But it was all in the name of fun. Without mummy and daddy to enforce rules they are left to set their own boundaries.

In the middle of the road I’m watching a dark-haired boy with grazes on both knees clout another lad around the face with a plastic truck. He drops the toy and drags him to the ground. Un-phased the lad kicks out his legs until shoe meets scabbed knee and the other is now rolling on the ground too. He grasps his little leg and rocks back and forth with a look of agony cut into his face. This sign of weakness does not falter the lad who wrenches the boy backward and drags him over the tarmac rubble leaving him in a heap near the pavement. No crocodile tears. No point. It’s just play. Neither boy cries or runs away. If they did run, who would it be to? There’s nobody left to listen. All the same, as I watch it unfold I can’t ignore the knot in my stomach; it’s barbaric. The primaries are wild I think.

They all live up in the church. Pastor Mitchell’s church hall is filled with sleeping bags and blankets laid out for them. I suppose I can’t fault him there. When everything turned to shit he gathered up the kids he could and kept them safe in the church walls. When things went quiet he’d ring his bells and like the Pied Piper the primaries would follow them up to the church door looking for a grown up to keep them in order. I can’t say that Pastor Mitchell is too good at that job but he does keep them fed and watered and generally safe. It’s a better fate than a lot of kids their age got when the virus spread that’s for sure. I never look in the cradles when I go scavenging.

Liz walks back up to me after peeling the two girls off of each arm. They stick to her like glue. Shall we go? She says. I say yes and we head off up the road in the opposite direction to the church. We’re going to meet that group she keeps talking about. She wants me to meet Adam. She says he’s the hottest guy she’s ever seen and that he so wants her. I’ve seen them before mind, when they first walked through, but I’m not sure which one was Adam. So, because it adds to her gossip if I know exactly who she’s talking about, she’s making me meet them. They didn’t look any trouble – kinda geeky if you ask me.

They’re all hauled up in an old Victorian terrace not too far from here. She explains that they’ve made it look really cool by drawing all over the walls and ripping the curtains up. She says they’re like rock stars; they go in and rip up a place because they just don’t care. I wonder whose home that was. ‘Adam’s a graffiti artist’ she gushes.  I’m honestly impressed. I love graffiti art, perhaps he’ll draw something for the flat.

They’re all hanging around the outside porch steps when we walk up and through the gate. There’s four of them, three boys and a girl. They all look about our age. The two that are sitting on the steps get up before saying hello. This tells me already that, although they’re trying to be rough kids, they’re really fibbing.

The two boys on the step wear tight black jeans and both have on Allsaints V-neck Tee-shirts just in different colours. One has a shaved head and neckerchief whilst the other one is wearing wooden bead bracelets and converse. They introduce themselves as Tony and Sam and I like them both. 

The girl in the group is sitting on the wall next to, who I assume must be, Adam. She’s wearing skinny jeans with a bright neon pink belt. Her top is low cut and she has massive boobs for a girl our age. I’m jealous, mine are tiny. She’s blonde with brown eyes. She’s pretty but the thick black eyeliner she’s wearing makes her eyes look a bit weird. At first I worry she might not be happy with us new girls intruding in on her group but she seems fine and joins in the introductions. Her name is Sophie and she’s Tony’s twin sister. They don’t look anything alike though.

I meet Adam last of course. Liz has been saving him – the best – till last I imagine. It gives the greatest dramatic effect right. He jumps down from the wall and wraps an arm round her neck in a sort of affectionate head lock. She giggles and flicks her hair like five times before introducing me. He gives me a friendly smile and I think he seems a nice guy too. He is quite handsome. He’s got long floppy hair and a side fringe over his left eye. He’s wearing black skinny jeans and a Metallica band top. He’s a bit shorter and more muscled than the other two who look like beanpoles in comparison. I think that it’s strange he’s Liz’s favourite as she usually goes for the tall guys.

We all head inside and I realise Liz wasn’t kidding when she said they’d wrecked the place. The wall papers torn from the walls and spray paint covers every wall. Smiley faces and song lyrics mostly. ‘Sleep with one eye open, gripping your pillow tight.’ Is scrawled in black marker on the lounge door. 

I’m guessing that one must be one of Adam’s. Inside, above the fireplace is another that reads ‘The colours conflicted, as the flames climbed into the clouds, I wanted to fix this, but couldn’t stop from tearing it down.’ This handwriting is different, it’s been written neatly in curling letters. As I read the words they haunt me a little. I don’t recognise the lyrics but they hit a nerve. I remember my dream.

I scan the rest of the room and nothing else has been given as much care. The curtains are slashed on one side of the room and the curtain rail completely pulled down on the other. The TV also smashed along with the glass coffee table. Smashing. Its lucky nobodies wearing sandals. God I sound like my mum. I’m not buying all this.

I talk to Adam about art and find his claim of graffiti artist a bit of a fucking stretch. He’s a basic tagger if that and his tag name of choice, DEAD4LIFE, not even sure what that means. I’m guessing he never even picked up a spray can before the virus broke. Not that I ever did either. Gees my dad would’ve tanned my arse. All the same he’s sprayed the words all over the house in thick black paint.

The one I’m standing in front of is his pièce de résistance. It’s giant. Each letter fills the entire vertical length of the wall which is pretty darn long in a Victorian house. He says it took him all morning and that he had to stand on a chair on a table to do it. What a risk taker I think.

I’m being harsh. I do kinda like it in a way. It’s sort of freeing being able to draw on walls and write whatever you feel where ever you want. DEAD4LIFE wouldn’t have been my first choice but it’s better than what I do: nothing. I haven’t drawn a thing since the virus. I’m not even sure why. It’s not like I don’t have the time. I like to draw people and I guess there aren’t that many about. I tell him I like to draw and he’s a sweet guy and tells me I should bring some over for him to see. I say I will and smile. We both know I won’t.

Liz is beaming. She’s quieter than I think I’ve ever seen her. I think it’s just because she’s so loved up. It’s cute to watch but also tiring. Crushes are so cringe to everyone else but you. Why is that?

I like Sam’s converse I think as I walk up the stairs leaving Liz to swoon. Well, he’s hot and definitely the hottest out of him and Tony. I’m pondering about our future double dates together when he interrupts. His thick brown hair haloed by the dorma light in the hallway makes him look even more perfect. Oh hey I say as if I didn’t give two shits about his perfect haloed hair. What you doing? He asks back as he runs his fingers through it. Fuck I think. He totally noticed. I tell him I’m avoiding the two love birds downstairs and he smiles back. Maybe I could keep you company instead? He whispers.