We live at “The Rocks”. That’s what we call our home. It is a collection of cabins and houses which in the old times was called a village. Some people live in the pieces of houses that were here before. Others have built new homes from materials scavenged from the city.
The Rocks is what some people from before the cataclysm call a junkyard or a wasteland. The place is just broken down houses and remnants of dead bodies. If living in prison means you get food and a place to be your friend, that sounds like heaven compared to this place. Every corner you turn there’s either a shady look gazing at you from afar or a child being brutally beaten or threatened for a couple extra bullets.
I prefer to lie low and avoid any “misunderstandings”. In this world it is fight or die.. Anyone who tries to be “different” gets a punishment worse than death or life. I live with my Mum and my little brother. But I try to live with my father. Every night he comes home covered in five different mutt bloods. Everyday I look at my estate, waiting for a gang member to come and ask If my dad is home.
One more weird thing about this places is our mental state. A faint rumination lives rent free in my mind. I think it’s a “ferris wheel”. This memory normally comes as a dream, but I feel like I’m there. I feel the warm air of the place brush across my hairs. I had the taste of sugary treats nestling on my taste buds. The people bursting with emotions other than remorse or regret or grief. The soft bed inside of my crib. Warm loving hands comforting my face. But I always wake up before I can figure out who is holding me up outside my crib. Explosions and screaming always wake me up.
I’m not the only one who gets these ruminations. Some say it’s a mark of the “mudders”. A mark of life before they arrived to torment us. Make us feel outdated, a wasted generation. And to make us fear them. Some say it’s a reminder. A reminder to never leave beyond The Rocks…
Confictionarium 