Bill thinks it’s a phase and that they’ll disappear like the last time. He says they’ll never reach us. I don’t share the sentiment. Last time they came so close that I could smell their pungent odor. They smelled like rubber and the souls of my ancestors.
When I was four years old, I watched my mother’s brutal murder. I wasn’t allowed to turn away. I watched as they killed her and as they chopped up her still-living parts. I don't really want to think about it now. I would try to forget it, but I still live in the place where she died. I just can’t seem to leave.
They came to our homes in Amani when I was little. I was too young; I wasn’t ready. I’m old enough now and I can only hope that They don’t return. They left a few of us alone destined to be orphaned forever. I wish I started off as an orphan like my buddy, Bill.
The ground is still a wasteland. Desolate.