In the pale-blue light of the solar-chargeable lamp perched on the lip of the bathtub, I watch my hands move in front of me. Grip. Un-grip. They seem far away, not my own. Like I am seeing through a grey fog that clings to the moisture of my corneas.
I watch as the crimson coating around the tips of my fingers and palms start to dry. It gets harder to grip my fists, the skin pulling firmly. The brown half-moons that replace my grown nails disgust me. How has it come to this?
I can't help the thought from replaying in my mind. The things I have witnessed in the past weeks of this horrifying and dreadful new life.
New life. Because that's what it is, isn't it? The stark difference from my life just a month ago makes it impossible to believe I haven't been reborn into my own personal nightmare, one I cannot seem to wake up from.
The white ceramic basin is stained by pretty pink drops as I wash my hands in the sink. My hands are numb, cold, as I pour the plastic cup of cool water over them. I don't remember the last time I have touched warm, soothing water. The rotten fruit of no electricity. I am careful not to waste even a drop of our conserved water, and I count the number of times I have refilled the cup. What an odd habit, albeit necessary.
Seems that I have reached the accorded limit for the day. Damn. I stop the cup from emptying over my hand and, instead, tip it into my mouth soundlessly, relishing in the few seconds of salving coolness it gives to my parched throat.
Unlike the rest of them, I recognise the importance of trust and order in a whacked makeshift society, and if ever one of us breaches the agreements, things will turn to chaos within seconds. Which is why I never exceed the limit. Else we really find out what it feels like to live as trapped maggots in a meatless carcass.
Not that it hasn't gone to shits already.
The truth is, when push came to shove, I was the one who transformed myself from your everyday run-off-the-mill part-time-working college freshman into a knock-off version of Tomb Raider that first week. Everyone else just fell behind, not in support, rather because they were too lazy to take care of things themselves, selfishly dumping all responsibilities on me.
And now? I can't even seem to get a few hours by myself without a moron coming up to me to ask a moronic question. Though the ultimate question remains: how long will we last when the supplies run out?—when the few dozens of filled pails run dry and the packaged food disappears.
There is no way of knowing how anything will turn out anymore, not since that first day that marked a shift in all of our worlds, and now a month later we are no closer to finding a way out. Perhaps another week or so and we will all be dead.
One thing I am utterly sure about, though, I will not go down with them.