The Curse of the Giant Hawk
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After we got back to my place I took off all my clothes. They were really dirty and there was dirt in places it shouldn’t be, like around the zipper on one of my jackets. The ground was so dusty that I didn’t need them at all anyway; I tossed them into a corner.
As soon as my shoes came off my feet crinkled under the weight of dried blood. I grabbed some warm water from my sink and poured some over each foot while cursing quietly. Then I washed off with soap. By then most of me looked pretty clean already—my skin had gone quite pale by now and I felt cool. That’s what happens when you sweat out your insides.
I left the bathroom, put on a pair of bath towels (one white, one blue), and went into my bedroom again. A long time ago I’d thought about building an actual house or something but never actually bothered. Nowhere would’ve suited me better than the attic though—the view outside is breathtaking and you can see for miles up here; that and I don’t get any more sunburned than I used to down in my kitchen, no matter how much I stay there.
Next door my mom lives with her boyfriend: they share two bedrooms; he sleeps downstairs and she’s got hers upstairs. She has an even better window overlooking the ocean, and I just love looking through it every morning and watching the seagulls fly southwards in their thousands, dodging each other as they head to warmer lands. The sea breeze always makes me feel refreshed after taking a shower.
When I turned off the light behind me and opened the curtains, everything was still dark outside. There wasn’t a single hint of sunrise yet, not even a little bit of color showing anywhere.
When I stepped away from the windows and onto my carpet I noticed immediately why my room smelled so fresh; the wind has blown into it all kinds of wild plants which were growing along the walls, making me wonder if I should get someone to come to take care of this or maybe take care of it myself.
At least I could do without seeing those flowers and herbs all the time. Maybe I’ll just wait until summer comes around again…
My desk is the most important feature of my apartment. It sits right next to the large window which lets sunlight fill up the entire space—that’s where I write and type most of the stories for my blog; I use a laptop with a wireless keyboard plugged into my monitor via USB.
In between these two stands my television set (a rather old-fashioned one, since I prefer using the computer screen itself); opposite me in front of the window I have a small table with several chairs: I guess you’d call them coffee tables. One day I’ll buy a proper chair and sit on it when I’m sitting here watching my shows. Or writing. Yeah, writing would be nice.
But I have a hard time getting started when I’m sitting in an uncomfortable armchair. I suppose I should start looking into ergonomic options. And then again, who knows? Maybe I’d finally find a book sitting on one of my shelves that would make me want to read it instead of staring into blankness and frustration.
Speaking of books… My nightstand is quite plain—just a simple wooden frame standing right in front of me. On top of it are my bedside lamps and the alarm clock. They’re the only pieces of furniture in my apartment I ever bought; apart from the mattress in the second bedroom and my sofa, everything else I found somewhere either at my mom’s or among the many boxes in storage.
There aren’t any pictures on my wall. Maybe it seems weird considering how many stories I’ve written about family members, but I’ve decided to keep them as fantasies. If there’s nothing real, then I don’t have anything to worry about.
I don’t believe in ghosts or any of the crap people say about them; if my sister is waiting for me wherever I am right now, I’ll see her when I die—or when I wake up, whatever comes first. Besides, the last thing I want in my life is a living reminder of her—her touch, her smell.
No thanks. I wouldn’t mind having a picture of the sunset framed though—the ones I see every day are stunning, almost too beautiful for words. Just thinking about how I might get rid of them someday hurts too much right now.
All in all, my room looks very calm and peaceful. Too bad that’s not how I feel most of the time.
***
Something Fierce Outside
Time went by slowly but steadily. One of my neighbors started playing his radio loudly in the middle of the night. Every time he did, I woke up straight away.
To try to shut him off, I stood by my window and reached out my hand. When I pressed my palm against the glass, cold, dry air rushed out of it like it was laughing at me, forcing me back inside. Only after I closed the curtains and tried sleeping again, did I realize it didn’t bother me anymore—and even less so after a few nights had passed.
Strange how fast we forget about things and adjust to them—things that were once frightening soon become just ordinary parts of our daily routine.
By now my eyes were so accustomed to the darkness outside that whenever I opened my curtains the shadows didn’t seem so threatening. I still took in the scenery because I thought it might help me come up with more ideas, but in the end, it only made me feel sad.
Sad that it never looked the same way. The trees stayed as they used to be, but now, thanks to the light filtering in through the clouds, their outlines were beginning to fade, almost melting away. A memory flashed across my mind: while I was lying there in my bed, half asleep, I remembered how I’d seen trees the exact same way at home—but even then it hadn’t been the same.
That day I’d wanted to go home so badly. But now, as I stared at the empty street, I realized something important had changed. I felt no urge to leave…in fact, I didn’t really know what I was supposed to be doing anymore.
Even during my walks along the road, I saw nothing but bare branches and lifeless grasses. Lately, my nose told me when it got dark and started raining; before long the water came pouring down.
Not even birds flew around anymore—only swarms of insects moved above my head as I walked on, waiting to take me over once the sun disappeared completely. And when the wind rose high and whistled through the trees, I knew another day ended—that time itself had slowed down.
Without any sign of hurry, I watched the sky change colors to orange and yellow and purple until, suddenly, it stopped. All of a sudden, winter arrived.
The days became shorter and colder—although the temperature remained around freezing point, it didn’t stop snowing and icy winds gusting over the streets every second day. The weather kept everyone indoors, meaning traffic wasn’t moving as smoothly as usual.
It also meant I was isolated at home more often than not. Even if I sat in an abandoned bus shelter near one of the main roads, I’d find it deserted two hours later—too chilly to wait out in the open. For a moment, I considered staying at my mom’s place, but that option quickly died out.
Although she was glad to finally have someone helping her with her groceries and cooking, she warned me against bringing anyone home—mainly due to all the questions everyone would ask about my appearance, and me telling them I haven’t had the heart to explain yet.
In return, I’d get laughed at incessantly; nobody wants to be teased forever.
Plus, as far as I could tell, no human beings had entered the city in years, including me. Everything else was the same: stores and banks still had their windows broken or boarded up, garbage cans piled up at intersections, and dogs barking outside houses.
That wasn’t really surprising given that none of the cars I passed had tires left—and even those that had somehow survived usually had some sort of flat tire on the passenger side, making them completely useless.
I couldn’t be sure, but I think the last police car in the country drove past our house less than thirty minutes ago. They probably locked it inside their garage to keep it safe.
Even though the day was cold, I decided to go out for a walk instead of going right to bed. My mother had left her keys under the doormat since my dad could never remember where he put them—even without the power, the doorbell rang regularly throughout the evening and morning.
As I turned my collar up against the wind, I noticed several dead mice on the sidewalk, their bodies stiff from being frozen. Their little limbs had fallen apart, revealing half-consumed innards that oozed blue blood from every pore.
After walking a while, I met three people coming toward me. There weren’t many of us left who still went outside, so seeing them together definitely raised some eyebrows. Two young men dressed in army fatigues stopped in front of me, looking nervous.
“Are you okay?” asked one of the soldiers. “We’re asking everyone that.”
I didn’t say anything, just nodded. He didn’t look like he expected the answer. His companion tried again. “You sure? You don’t see many other people.”
What did that mean? I’d seen plenty of others in my travels. After I stared blankly at him, the first guy put his hands on his hips. “You’re one of those guys, aren’t you? One of them…monsters…”
Before I could stop myself, I snapped back, “Just what is a monster?!”
He and his friend froze. But their eyes remained glued to my face as if I were the only real thing around. Which made sense after everything I’ve learned since I’d come here, and what I’d already witnessed. When he spoke next, his voice sounded eerily calm. “Well…what do we know about you monsters?”
His companions grew quiet, almost intimidated by this outburst. They stood there with their mouths gaping open, unable to look away. To think they believed all these stories about the human race getting devoured by the undead and the crazies. With a sigh, I finally answered, “A bunch of stuff. Just ask the mayor; she knows the most. Anyway, I’m not a monster, but the living is.”
When my statement seemed to annoy him more, I realized how stupid that was. “Sorry…not trying to upset anyone. I’ve been watching a lot of movies lately, and—”
“It’s fine,” one of the other soldiers said. He didn’t seem bothered at all by my outburst. “We thought the whole world had turned to shit like this.”
“No…well…it has.” And then I started walking down the street, leaving the young men standing on the sidewalk to talk among themselves.
With my curiosity sated—or at least partially satisfied—I returned home, hungry. Once inside, I found my mom sitting at the dining table, finishing off dinner. She looked happy to see me, but when she saw the food on the plate I’d brought with me, a relieved grin spread across her face.
We both ate a hearty meal that night, taking turns talking about everything and nothing—my life, things I’d experienced during the evacuation, the changes I had yet to notice.
By the time we finished eating, the sun had sunk low enough to be blocked by the wall of ice that had formed above the mountains. In the light of day, the house was simply too dark and gloomy, especially since the electricity had been cut off.
My mom refused to sit in the dark, so she lit candles and lanterns around the room. A fire burned quietly in the hearth, casting an orange glow onto the walls as well as the curtains hanging over the window.
The End