1

One foot in front of the other. Since I opened my eyes to this snowy hellscape, that's all I've done. The snow crackles under my freezing, hesitant feet. It's all I know. The world around me is desolate, and war-torn. It's mostly ash, really, mixing into the snow to make a ghoulish grey. What still stands is broken. It seems to be what remains of a neighborhood. The houses are dilapidated, most collapsed, rubble surrounding me.

I wince and look down at my body. A trail of blood paints itself behind me, a fitting stroke on this portrait of misery.

What happened? What happened here? What happened to me? I try to think hard, but nothing comes to me. The harder I try to track down a memory amongst the darkness, a pang spreads through my mind, nothing but ghosts of laughter I don’t even recognize.

My heart aches at the loss, but my mind has no name, no faces. The memory was smeared, and blurred, leaving only the semblance of a loved one. I pause, staggering to a stop.

Hunger and thirst. Still, my body propels itself forward, despite my desperate wishes for death, as if some age-old programming in my DNA has awakened, flickering itself to life with one objective: live by any means.

After a while, even the laughter fades, memories slipping from my grasp. Only the instinct moved me now. There’s nothing but darkness.

I stick my tongue out, hoping to catch some snowflakes and quench my scorched throat, but they dissipate on the heat of my tongue before I can swallow them. The snow blurred my sight for a moment; removing the tragic surroundings—the encroaching reaper. The loss.

My mind is blank. I soldier on.

Between the cracks in the rubble, something moves. My eyes flare to life and narrow in on something in the distance, a singular figure cutting through the bleak scenery, jagged and unstable. Like a wobbly line, it's so thin and tall. Its steps falter—his, I think, staggering for a few steps until he stands upright and gains his composure.

Something in me tells me not to approach. I lighten my steps and stay quiet.

Dirt sticks to my ragged figure, as I march to nowhere, in a confused daze. I furrow my brow, trying to find some sense of connection to this place, but there is none. Am I from here?

My lungs squeeze, forcing me to stop in my tracks and clutch my chest. My lungs feel like they're about to explode. I look up at the sky, trying to inhale deeply, flooding my constricted lungs with much-needed air. I glance back at my footsteps. There aren't many. I shake my head and continue.

The sky at least is clear. It's the only thing that hasn't fallen in this world, it seems. Not yet, anyway.

As I walk I try again to figure myself out. All I have is my name: Molly. My name and the sky. That's all there is. That's all I know.

The sound of footsteps, quieted by the snow gives me pause. A man, older this time, maybe middle-aged, staggers toward me from the ruins.

He's tall and lithe, with a shock of black hair dotted with snow, or maybe some grey, I can't seem to tell. He ambles in my direction, not seeking to notice me and a sense of unease rises inside me. But there's nowhere to run, so I just keep walking.

The closer we get though, the worst I feel, and at first I can't pinpoint it. Then he gets close enough for me to smell it.

A sickly, saccharine smell emanated from his pores, turning my stomach. My body trembles.

Fear swallows me deeper. And my stomach does three more revolutions, before I crumple over, bent in half, the contents of my stomach releasing onto the ground.

My hand shakes when I bring it to my mouth to wipe it, my knees shaking.

I finally stand upright and look back at where that man was. The echo of his neck cracking in the empty wasteland sends shivers down my spine. Blue eyes met mine, dark and endless.

I edge back.

I swallow roughly, the taste of bile still in my mouth. I had one more thing to my knowledge bank: I do not trust this guy.

Before I can think, he's in front of me, his hand clamped on my forearm, sending a new bolt of pain radiating through my arm.

“You’re so pretty, little omega. Where are you off to in such a hurry,” his voice sounded.

“What are you talking about,“ I wrench away from him. “Let go of me! Leave me alone!”

*What is omega?

A silent scream escapes me, and I push away from him roughly, trying to ignore the searing pain, using all of my strength.

It's not enough. His hands grab at me hungrily, the scent of alcohol wafting through my nose. I just woke up and I've never been this scared in my life.

I glance around for something to use and reach for some rubble in my grasp, wooden planks from an old house no longer standing.

I smash one down on his head, hard then bring it around again, hitting every part of him I could reach until I no longer felt his body weight on me.

Air flooded my lungs and I ran, eyes down and squeezed shut, as I focused everything into my legs, sprinting away from that scene.

I have to get away. I have to get away—it's a chant in my ears I can't ignore.

"You little bitch,"

My body jerks, my scalp screaming, his fingers grabbing my hair, yanking me back into his arms. He slams me down on the ground, the cold snow on my face bringing me back to consciousness.

From under my snow-laden lashes, I see more people. Maybe they can help.

I open my mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. I'm tired. What if they're all like him? What if...I die here?

With just the sky, and the snow and my name? I can't...I have to try.

"H-help," I try. It's barely above a whisper. I try again. "Help—!"

A man, his hands in his pockets, approaches, almost nonchalantly. His strides are confident and he eats up the space between us.

Without a word, he pulls a hand from his pocket, and before I can see what it is, it goes off in his hand with a resounding bang.

I wince at the sudden noise and glance up at him. Jet black, midnight hair. His eyes are almost black.

"T-thank you. What did you do?"

He doesn't speak. He just stares at me. Warm. All of a sudden. Warm, and liquid. Sticky.

My eyes widen. A gun. It was a gun. I scream, bucking the man off me. Rolling from under him. I glance over at him. He looks back at me. His eyes open, blood coloring the snow, stiff. My breathing quickens, but I know immediately what it is.

Death. He's dead.

My eyes lift to the offender. Maybe I should be grateful, but the coldness of his stare steps between me and any feelings is so scary, “Please please don’t kill me!