June 11, 2011

  • Letters - 2

    She stopped talking five days ago. Hasn't eaten for three. I open her eyes now and then. Blink them for her. She breathes. I check. I found an abandoned car near the field and ripped off the side mirror. That's how I check.

    During the day, I still watch her. Keep the flies off of her. They're growing.

    I haven't eaten as much either. But I don't feel bad. I get more than her, but she doesn't complain. We finished the corn and beans. Anything that would spoil we ate first. We were smart about it. We tried to keep our nutrition balanced. A person needs fiber. I told her I didn't trust the grass, but she said that dryed out - it should be alright. The protein is from rats. They've become slower, too. The flies can catch them.

    I stay near the creek. We were lucky to find it. We tried living by a pond first, but the water is too stagnant. Dirty. Covered with flies. I told her we should keep walking - see what else was out there. She was reluctant but agreed. Our feet swelled. Too big for our shoes. Hers turned purple. Then blue. Now white.

    We see birds. These don't sing, though. They just circle. But they are nice to watch. I lay and stare up into the clouds. They pass by, swirling. The birds just circle.

    I know that no one will find us. I realized that. I'm not scared. I think we're some of the lucky ones. Atleast we have each other. We will always have each other.