Challenge/Prompt: #169 - Melancholy
Original Fiction or Fanfiction: Original
Disclaimer: I do not own pandemics.
Summary: -same as the first verse.
The baby cries. Your eyes open.
The outflung arm is sheer reflex; there’s nothing there but your gun, and you don’t need that just now. (Insert tasteless joke, uncertain chuckle, dry mouth.) There haven’t been lights for three months, but you still reach. Reflex. Repetition. You’re a quick learner, but you get locked in the same motions so easily.
Dark hallway waits. Narrow enough to catch you if you stagger, though you don’t like to touch.
(Insert dank mold, peeling paint, sealed windows.)
A familiar pathway. Reflex. Repetition.
(Insert cold fever, black bile, dark city.)
Eyes open. The baby cries.