We Will All Be Alone

By Rasheka Christie-Carter

The grass is cold. I lie there. The wind accompanies me while I watch a large family of small black ants. All of them traveling together. Some carrying leaves, some carrying sticks, all fulfilling a purpose. All being part of something. Envy grows within me as I stare at them. I jump up from the grass and repeatedly press my feet on the green floor. Desperately hoping to make them stop. A smile grows across my face. When I look down, only one remains.

Still smiling, I walk through the colorful park, pulling out all the elegant white daisies from the soil. Except for one. I crouch down, examining the last flower. Watching every petal flutter gently in the breeze. The gentle scent captivates me. The green stem stands proudly, towering over the dead.

As I leave the park, I wander over towards the main road. Hollow car frames huddle together, and the derelict remains of buildings rest horizontally on the ground. Rusted military tanks and helicopters lie scattered around. Everything is where it should be. Everything is still.

I skip over to the deserted train station and sit on the two yellow lines, my legs swinging over the fractured tracks. In the distance, a large brown bear strolls majestically down the rail line. Witnessing such joy is comforting. As he gets closer, I gaze at his glistening fur, each strand twinkles like glass shards. However, behind him, there are five smaller versions of himself. I just observe. No smiles. No humming. Nothing except anger. It takes over. I sprint to the nearest military truck, grab a small pocket pistol and run back to the train station. I stand, legs apart, shaking, consumed with blind rage. They walk in unison, mocking me. I scream, “We will all be alone!”  Bullets dance through the air and the small brown animals scatter into the unknown.

I drop the weapon, then I sprint back to the park. I just keep on running. After a while, I end up in a clearing. My eyes dart around taking in all the greenery. It’s quiet. I am drawn to the dark red roses that fill the bushes. My fingers run across the rims of the delicate flowers. Slowly, my hand hovers around one of the roses. I grip the flower from its stem, removing it from its home and dropping it on to the floor. I repeat. Again and again with bloody hands until there is a pile of roses on the ground. I lie on the burgundy bed, looking up.

Hundreds of grackles fly over-head, altogether, in one direction. I turn my body to my side and look around. The trees stand strong like soldiers waging war. The sun peeks through the clouds. I focus on the soft blue sky, trying to ignore all the degenerates’ noises. The scurrying, squeaking, shuffling; it’s all infuriating. I sigh as the wind serenades the bushes while they jitter and sway. They are all together. Every green blade of grass, identical and taunting me. Reminding me.

An unsettling influx of sadness and realization hits me. A tear glides down my face onto a decaying rose. “I’m outnumbered.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rasheka Christie-Carter is an aspiring screenwriter and film student in London. She loves to write poems, short stories, monologues and screenplays. Her ultimate goal is to become a writer and director in film and television. It is important for her to watch, read and listen to as much media and art as she can, as she believes it will make her a better writer.