Faded

• Xanthe Burrows, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2018

I opened my fist and gazed into my hand I stared at the picture of my house. Flashbacks got me of the memories and cheerful times I had at that house. I was alone in a dark underground hideout place, I don’t really know how to explain it but It looked like an old grey abandoned car park. My mouth was covered with a black cloth, I was wearing a black jumper, tracksuits, a beanie and boots. I sighed wishing that everything was back to the way it was, but it wasn’t.


So, I ran.


And Ran.


And Ran.


Until I couldn’t take one more step. My legs couldn’t walk any further. My head ached. My heart raced. I collapsed.


I wanted to rip the cloth off my mouth but I knew I shouldn’t. I tried to take deep breaths but all I could do was pant, like a dog I lay there panting. I was in an abandoned city lying next to an old building. The grass was dead, there were no trees. But I stood up and stared at the photo again and I ran.


I ran past the buildings.


I ran out of the old city.


I ran through a field.


I ran along a road.


Day and night, I ran.


I ran, Past a beach.


I ran. And ran.


And ran. Then I stopped.


I raised the photo in front of my face. I had a good look. Then I dropped it onto the dead grass. In front of me I saw it. The rubble. The broken windows. My house, gone.


The virus, the disease, the war, everyone is gone.