More of the "post apocalyptic-love story.” Please read and comment.
Those days were absolute, as vivid now to her as they had been the moment they began. She could still feel the ache of her muscles, the raw strain in her limbs from pulling her father away from the chaos and into the belly of their bunker.
She still saw his weak body dying as she held him in her lap, felt the rattle of gunfire and aggression above ringing into her senses. She still smelled the tang of blood on her hands as they wiped over her father’s wounded temple, still heard his voice harsh and stubborn as he made her promise to leave him, to leave for the mountains were she would be safe. She waited a week, long past the moment her father’s body had grown cold, before she managed to obey him.
Anissa walked away from the darkness of the night, pushing back the memories of the past. Ignoring the chill on her skin, she went into what had once been her kitchen, grabbing what remained of the dried meat she’d brought back with her, thankful for the meager comfort of her father’s home. She heard Harding stirring, and checked him for a fever, relieved to find his skin cool and dry. She pulled the thin blanket over his chest then sat down again, her feet dangling from the large, glassless window.
“It is still night?” he asked, his voice surprising Anissa. The silence had been so profound for so long, that his voice sounded abnormal to her, out of place. She nodded, answering him and attempted to help Harding as he struggled to sit next to her. His color was better and he smelled clean, like the calendula. They watched the moon dip and the fires in the horizon smoldering into thin plumes.
“Can you eat?” she asked, offering him the cold jerky in her hand. He smiled and Anissa tore it in half, turning away from him when their fingers touched.
The silence was something she’d never grown accustomed to. There were no birds, no crickets chirping their songs. All was still, soundless and black. Their new world seemed old and broken. She counted each breath she took and was reminded of her father, of the times they would watch the stars fading.
“My father is buried over there, beneath the ridge,” she said, giving flippant notice to the burn in her eyes.
Harding sat closer, his shoulder touching hers. “Was it the Guard?” he asked and she nodded, not able to find her voice. “I should have been here.”
“Yes,” she said, wiping her fingers against her jeans. “You should have.”