Yes, I said.
I know what they have done.
I jolt up from the concrete. Hard and cold, like me. My clothes are tattered, and my arms and face are full of scars from last nights' trek in the woods. Rubbing sleep out of my eyes, I look around. I can't believe it's almost been six years since the Wave and I'm the only one left...I think.
Now, you're probably thinking, what's the Wave? It was horrible. I still have nightmares: flashes of fear-stricken faces and screaming children here and there, parents unable to find their families. Trees being ripped to shreds.
The Wave hit my town the worst because it was right next to the. Freaking. Ocean. Maybe if we hadn't lived there, I would still have my family. Anyways, all I remember was the hundred-foot wave. The gray water contrasting against the black sky. It started coming down slowly. The faster. Faster. Faster, and I couldn't hear anything after that.
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I chose to write this piece from a line I saw from the poem, The Last Wolf, and from that poem I chose the first two lines and put it in my story. Just like last time, I wanted to write something ominous, something catastrophic and it left the character with nothing but a small shred of dignity. It was the kind of story that I wanted to keep writing, or it left the reader thinking of an ending for themselves, so in a way, my story was kind of like a DIY story. I want to write more stories that have a darker theme next quarter.
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