What We Became

A survivor journals love, loss, and humanity in a world gone feral.

Journal Entry — Day 742

I’m not even sure why I still write in this thing. I guess it’s because when I die there will be some sort of proof that I was alive, should someone, or something intelligent enough, come along and find it, and somehow read this chicken scratch. Maybe they’ll know we weren’t always like this. Maybe they’ll know I wasn’t always like this.

It’s been two years now since the world went to hell.

My life used to suck, but it wasn’t this kind of suck. It was manageable. Predictable. I had a rhythm I could complain about but still follow. Wake up, drag myself to work, deal with people I didn’t like, come home, throw something in the microwave, and boot up a game with my friends. We’d laugh, talk trash, complain about bosses and rent and everything else that felt like the end of the world at the time.

God… I’d give anything to have those problems back.

Now I wake up and the first thing I do is listen. Not for alarms or traffic or neighbors, but for movement. Scratching. Growling. The kind of sounds that tell me whether I’m still alone…or not.

I’m getting ahead of myself again.

Some enzyme they found buried in Arctic ice. Something ancient. Something that tied modern humans to what we used to be before language, before society.

They said it was a breakthrough.

They said it would change everything.

They were right about that, at least.

From what I pieced together from old broadcasts before everything went dark, a scientist got exposed during some accident. Maybe a broken vial. Maybe a containment failure. Doesn’t really matter now. What matters is what it did.

At first, it looked like confusion. People forgetting words. Losing their train of thought mid-sentence. Then came the aggression. The fear. The panic. Like their brains were shedding layers, peeling back everything that made them…human.

Then the language went.

Then the reasoning.

Then everything else followed.

The only reason I’m still here is because of my job, funny, right? All those years complaining about working in the sewers, and it turned out to be the one place that kept me alive. Down there, away from the crowds, away from the chaos… I had time. Time to understand what was happening. Time to avoid it.

Time to survive.

And time to save Lexi.

I found her in her apartment, barricaded in the bathroom. She was shaking, terrified, but still herself. I remember the way she looked at me when I pried the door open, like I was the last solid thing in a world that was dissolving.

We didn’t even talk about it. Not really. We just moved.

I took her underground with me.

For a year, it was…not normal, but something close to it. We built a routine. We mapped out safe routes through maintenance tunnels and service corridors. We figured out which places above ground were still worth risking for supplies. Canned food. Bottled water. Medical kits when we could find them.

And then…two weeks ago happened.

We were out on a run. A grocery store we’d hit before, mostly cleared out, but still worth checking. That’s when we heard it.

A girl crying.

Soft. Weak. Human.

I remember grabbing Lexi’s arm, telling her it could be a trap. Not a trap in the way we used to think about it, but the kind this world sets now. The kind where hope gets you killed.

But Lexi…she couldn’t ignore it.

That was always who she was. The part of her I loved most…and the part that doomed her.

We found the girl in one of the aisles, curled up, shaking. She looked normal. Too normal, maybe. I should’ve trusted that instinct. I should’ve pulled Lexi away.

But I hesitated.

That’s all it took.

The girl lunged.

Fast. Animal fast.

She bit Lexi before I could react. I dragged her away, slammed a cart into the girl, ran until my lungs felt like they were tearing apart.

We made it back underground.

For a day, everything seemed fine.

Then Lexi started forgetting words.

Then she stopped speaking altogether.

Now…now she’s in the next room.

I locked her in there three days ago.

I told myself it was for her safety. For my safety. That maybe, maybe there was still something we could do. Some way to slow it down. Reverse it. Fix it.

But deep down, I knew.

There is no cure.

Not that I’ve seen. Not that anyone’s left to make.

She doesn’t recognize me anymore.

Sometimes…sometimes I sit outside the door and talk to her anyway.

I tell her about the things we used to do. The stupid arguments. The movies we watched a hundred times. The way she used to steal my hoodie and refuse to give it back.

I don’t know if any part of her hears it.

I don’t know if anything of her is still in there.

And that’s the worst part.

If she were gone...really gone...I could grieve. I could bury her, in whatever way this world allows, and move on.

But this?

This is like watching someone drown in slow motion…and knowing there’s nothing you can do to pull them out.

I can’t keep her locked in there forever.

It’s not living. Not for her. Not for me.

So I think…I think tomorrow, I’m going to open the door.

Let her go.

Let her be whatever this world has turned her into.

And then I’ll leave.

Go somewhere far from here. Somewhere quiet. If places like that even exist anymore.

I don’t know how much longer I have on my own. Maybe I’ll slip up. Maybe I’ll get careless. Maybe I’ll just get tired.

But when that day comes…at least this will still be here.

Proof.

That I, Justin Kinsey, was alive.

Word Count: 988
Prompt: Write a story or poem in the form of a journal entry written after some sort of disaster.
Use Writing as one of your genres.
Written for: "The Writer's Cramp"