This is very lame, but I will do this anyway.
My name is Faith Morales. I am eighteen years old and I am 5"4. I have a twenty-year old brother named Peter Morales. I'm a half-white, half-Guatemalan girl. I have six piercings on my face. The usual two on the earlobes, two studs on each of my ears, a nose stud and one on my eyebrow. I have short hair.
I figured I'd write this so I could keep my sanity in this cursed place, this Earth, but in a way, it doesn't make sense. Whatever I write here would not matter so much. Besides, a huge number of people are gone. Almost everyone's gone. Even my parents. All I have left now is my brother. And I love him and all, but he's probably the fifth or fourth person I wouldn't want to be with after an apocalypse. But he's all I got. Still, I don't expect him to read this journal either. We're not leading any kind of legacy or anything. Everything's dead anyway.
I remember when everything was alive. Messed up, but alive. I had a few friends. I wasn't alone much. I had a few because people were quick to judge me. It's definitely not because of my piercings. Sarcasm aside, I believe people didn't like me because of my odd attitude either. Like I should give in to society or something. It's not like I'm emo or anything. Because I'm not. I can actually be very euphoric and lighthearted. Or... I could back then. But I'm guessing it's because they don't know me. I know I'm different. While girls loved heels, I loved combat boots. While guys loved girls with long, flowing blond hair, I loved my hair short and dark. While everyone loved dogs, I loved cats. While everyone loved canaries, I loved snakes. It's funny how people judge cats and snakes so much. They see their eyes and assume they're creations of the devil. And don't get me started on those ridiculous superstitions. Especially that every person with tattoos or piercings are a cancer to earth. Well, I can say that my piercings didn't lead up to this apocalypse. I don't even believe they hurt anyone, anyway. Well, they did to me when I got them. But I think I love snakes and cats because I relate to them.
Even before I got my piercings, as a kid, I was disliked. I used to be very smart. I was outspoken. It was so easy to express myself. The other kids didn't like that. They called me a kiss-ass; a teacher's pet; a show off. But I never meant to be those things. I mean, if I remember, no one ever volunteered to answer what two plus two was. But as I grew up, the envy grew after I began learning music. I loved guitar. I wish I could play it now, but it's... Burnt to a crisp now from last summer's heat wave. I don't really care. It wasn't the best guitar I was given anyway. I think of playing in my mind. But back to the subject, they didn't like me for finding my talents so early. I would always tell them in my smart-alecky attitude, "Then get your ass up and find your own talent. I worked hard to find my own; your destiny's not my job." They would call me a bitch and go on with their lives. They mostly called me the "white bitch". I know that I'm Hispanic and all, but I AM half-white. But when I was born, I was too white. I used to be pale. I guess that was the one thing I gave in to. Something I felt insecure for. So I once tried to burn myself in the sun so I wouldn't get anymore immature insults from kids. They were very stupid. Then again, getting myself pink as a flamingo was stupid, too. But I find it funny how I talk more Spanish than my brown-skinned classmates. I don't blame them. I never judge my classmates. I mean, I never want to be judged, so I don't do so to others. But to be honest, I feel like I'm more Hispanic than most of my white-washed Hispanic classmates. Heck, even my white father knew Spanish. But now I'm a bit of a peach-colored girl. Not too white yet I don't look like I'm burnt. I want to at least look like I'm alive than a cold corpse. I may be dark and punk-looking, but not as much to be white as Snow White. But I was also picked on for my appearance. I was as skinny as a stick, and most of the girls envied my skinniness. And how mature to deal with their insecurity than calling me an anorexic. Let me let you know that I am quite an eater. I'm those kind of girls with huge appetites. I once ate twelve buffalo wings on a sleepover night with my friends and for dessert, I ate a slice of chocolate cake. So calling me an anorexic is very far from where I am now. And I'm not even athletic either. Sure I play tennis here and there, but I don't consider myself an athletic. I guess it's my metabolism that makes me very skinny. And of course, my body changed between junior high and high school and the girls went from calling me anorexic to calling me a gothic whore. And they were the same girls from before, and the new girls from other schools went with it. I ignored it, because I know who I am. And I'm not a whore at all. That's just gross. But at least a huge chunk of people didn't care for the name-calling and were nice to me anyway. I mean, I am a person after all. But I did sense a lot of insecurity on the girls who picked on me. But I'm not the one controlling how my body looks. People think I look great, but I don't know. I feel I'm average. But it's nice to look at myself naked before the mirror once in a while. Y'know, to appreciate how I look now and then without being conceited. I also get compliments how my short hair goes with my face. I just like looking boyish. There's just something annoying about girls being... Y'know. Girls. Pink, makeup, skirts. According to most girls, they define if you're a girl and if you're not, you might as well get a sex change. I hate makeup. I hate anything that would mask my face. I mean, how would people take me seriously if they see something that's not naturally me? I have to say that I do wear a lot of eyeliner, but that's where it ends. Blush, eye shadow, lipstick, whatever it is, it just makes people look fake. I want to look real to people. I always want to approach people to who I really am without being afraid to show it. And I'm not afraid to show it. Unfortunately, most people in society don't like that. If society were mature, it would be glad that I'm fearless in showing my true self to the world than bottling it in and being someone else on the outside. But you know, eff society.
Already you (I can't believe I forget that no one would read this anyway, but whatever) might thing I'm such a pessimistic, gothy girl. I can say that I'm not goth at all. A little punk, maybe, but definitely not goth. And pessimistic? Hell, no. I may not be the most optimistic chick in the world, but I don't have notions of the world ending. This case... Yeah, the world ended, I guess, but I'm not killing myself. I wouldn't anyway. Surprisingly, I hate seeing blood. Such a thing gives me the creeps and I get sick. To kill oneself, you must know what you're doing. Meaning you have to watch yourself kill yourself. And that is the very last thing on my mind right now. Besides, I already have my brother, and that's enough of a slow death. And he's the pessimistic one. I guess I'm trying to defend myself, but if you still believe that I'm like those punky girls, go ahead. I don't really care anyway. I've actually had friends who see who I really am. And they don't have piercings at all. It seems that I don't want friends with piercings because they somehow possess some people into those troublemakers society despises. Even though I have piercings, I don't believe I'm tough and aggressive. But a lot of pierced acquaintances I knew were very much trying hard to look badass and actually ended up being jerks. Thankfully, there were some people who weren't like that. It's hard to find people I relate to. But that's why I had the friends I had. I really miss them.
I also miss my parents. They really moved me and my brother very much. They were probably the best parents a girl could ask for. Not only did they trust me so much, but they also raised me right. They shaped me into a very mature girl for my age and I'm very happy for that. They even trusted me for getting my piercings because they knew that I was mature enough for them and they would love me no matter what I choose for myself. They supported me in every way possible and even though I was verbally abused by the kids at school, I knew that my parents we waiting for me at home to make things much better. They accepted me for who I was, but one thing that bothered me was that they always told me that I was strong. I don't know about you, but I don't consider myself that. I don't know, I think the apocalypse, or a little before that, made me a bit doubtful. But they would always tell me that I have pure strength. I don't know what that means. I'm skinny as a stick, and not the pretty kind of skinny, and there's a limit for me with lifting weights, and I'm done very soon, honestly. And if they meant emotionally and mentally, I already mentioned how queasy I get with even a drop of blood. I also get very emotional when I see something die. As little as a butterfly, I remember, when I was a small girl. I remember a group of boys in elementary school caught a butterfly and they cackled at it trying to escape their little hands. Being merciful, I intervened for the insect's life and told them to knock it off. They insulted me and then they made me wish I didn't speak for the poor butterfly: they threw it on the floor and stepped on it in front of me. The bell rang and the boys ran past me, pushing me down, and I was already in tears. They called me a crybaby for the push. They could push me all they want and I wouldn't shed a tear. But my tears were for the butterfly. I sat on my knees, alone on the playground, and mourned for the creature. It's iridescent blue wings, once perfectly formed and shining, we're now ripped and stained with bits of grass and dirt from the boys' shoe. It was such a cruel thing. The butterfly never did anything wrong. And it was killed for no reason at all. I wished so much to bring that butterfly back to life. But I was a kid. I was devastated that I couldn't do so for the butterfly. Since then, I couldn't bear to see dead animals. A single cat run over on the street would make my eyes water, and I'd have to force the tears back. A beaten dog with matted fur would make me desperate to take him in, but my parents and brother have allergies with dogs. But all in all, it was painful for me to see an animal beaten or killed when a human must've been involved. If I see an animal killed by another, like a fight between crows and gulls, I feel some remorse, but not so much when a human is responsible. By now, you might think I'm a vegetarian. I am not. I love meat and I think I might not survive without it. But when an animal is killed for amusement and mindlessness, that's a different thing. We have the gift to think and have morals, but we abuse that and become animals ourselves, taking advantage of our power and taking it out on things that can't think for themselves, making us think we're stronger when in fact it makes us weaker. I don't know, people don't understand it when I explain it, but I hold my beliefs. But my point is that I'm very sensitive, and there may be times that I have determination and willingness for things. I think that's what my parents' mean. I am very hard-hearted and sarcastic, as you may have noticed. But right now...
Right now... I'm terrified. This world has become so different. I hardly remembered what happened before the earth went haywire. Before everyone left. Well, they didn't leave exactly. All I remember was that the clouds were separating and the sun was growing for some reason. There was a whole lot of fire, and screaming, and smoke everywhere. I thought everyone was going to die. My parents held me and my brother with them. I also remember my mother smiling for some reason. My father, too. Peter and I exchanged looks of confusion. It was until the last words my mother spoke to me was, "It's time." Then a bright light flashed and all of a sudden, I passed out. At a quick instant, everything became silent. The white light immediately went black, and I was in a deep sleep. When I woke up, I saw my brother passed out next to me. I looked round and saw the world was very grey, ashy and deathly silent. I couldn't believe it at all. I thought that this was all a stupid dream and I would wake up in my bed, awaiting for my mother to tower over me to say good morning. I waited for that. I waited an hour. But I never "woke up". Then I wondered if I did in fact wait an hour. I looked through the house, looking so hollow and ominous without any hint of sound, and every clock we had was either off or frozen. I checked digital clocks. Off or just flashing odd digits. I checked hand clocks. They didn't move at all. I checked the batteries on them. I tried replacing them with new ones. The only response I got was an unusually fast ticking. It was then I realized that time didn't exist anymore. Then I felt something on my foot. I looked down and found my orange tabby cat, Tiger. I picked him up quickly and hugged him and kissed him, but he stretched out his arms on my chest and begged for no sudden affection. He wasn't always like that; he could be very sweet and affectionate—when he wants to. But I let him down, thankful that he was with me and he didn't leave me with Peter. When I went back to the room I woke up and I saw Peter coming to. He looked around, obviously puzzled and worried. He looked up at me, his green eyes dark and frightened. "Where's mom and dad?"
I looked about the room, and we sat there in silence. They weren't there. They couldn't have left us sleeping on the floor. Without saying a word, we both scouted the house up and down, looking through every crack and nook possible. We had no luck. We walked outside. The outside was still grey and ashy, but there were still trees. They were dead, though. I walked a few steps away from Peter, trying to figure this out as much as I could understand, but I didn't get it at all. Our house sat on a hill, and we overlooked the city below. I cupped my hands to my mouth and yelled, "Mom! Dad!" There was no response. Minutes passed as I stared at the horizon. The sun was clouded, but normal, as I noted now perfectly it formed a perfect white circle. The air was thick and it make me begin to cough. I turned and grabbed the collar of Peter's shirt, asking in an urgent and raspy voice, "Where are they?! Where'd they go?!" He answered back, "I don't know!" I ran inside and went to my room. On my desk laid my cell phone. I picked it up and dialed my dad's number. No answer. I tried again two more times before I tried calling my mother three times. She couldn't answer either. I called my friends. Katie four times, Laura five, and Florence four. Each call, I tapped my fingers impatiently on the desk. I tried calling mom and dad again, tears now running heavily down my cheeks until Peter stopped me by grabbing at my arms. The shake knocked my phone out of my hands and onto the floor. "Let go of me!" I yelled. "They're not here!" he yelled back. "No!" "Nobody's here! Not mom, not dad, not any of your friends! I wouldn't be surprised if our cousins and my friends are gone, too!" I bit his upper arm, but he wouldn't eat go. Instead he held on tighter. Then I held onto his words. Nobody's here. Not even Mark. I screamed in panic and anger. "Scream all you want. There's no police around here either!" "I'm not screaming about that, dumbass!" I cried fiercely. He tightened his grip again, saying in a calm tone, "Calm down." This went on for ten more minutes before I gave up and we stood there, aside from my sniffing and the soft splash of my tears falling to the floor, in the silence. Peter loosened his grip and I almost lost my footing before I stood up without his assistance. After a few seconds I fell to the floor on my knees, my heart in my throat, and I cried the hardest cry in my life. I didn't scream; I whimpered, but in my heart, it hurt so much. It was like it was made of glass and the realization of the closest people I knew shattered it all to pieces. Especially one. I shook my head violently when I mumbled, "No. Not Mark, too." That was a month ago.
Mark was someone I knew from church. I remember becoming friends with him in our youth. We were so young. So innocent. We became best friends, he and I. My parents loved him, but his parents weren't the same with me. Especially after I got piercings. But I really needed him. And he needed me. Throughout the years, I knew he had an anxiety disorder. But when he was with me; I don't know why—he feels complete and fine, or so he told me many times. We became so close that I... That I... Gosh,I never said this out loud to anyone. Not even to myself. But I've fallen in love with him. Deeply. If anything, Mark brought everything right and beautiful to my world. When I got piercings, everyone at church judged me, thinking I became a Satanist or something. But not Mark. He still stood by me after my decision. He also helped me write songs. But the best songs were the romantic songs we wrote together. I haven't idea if he felt the written songs, but I know I did. He probably thought that the songs we wrote were cheesy and everything... But what I wrote in those songs were true words from my heart. For him. And I usually hate romantic songs these days. But what we wrote was pure poetry. Every word had a deeper meaning that what was on the surface, like every gesture he made to me, meant so much more than they really were. And as we grew up... Oh, as he grew up. He grew to be very handsome and tall. He was a bit taller than I was; just a bit. I wonder if he thought about how I grew up. He had a very charming smile that makes my insides melt hopelessly. His hazel eyes were very expressive and beautiful to look at. One look at those eyes and you see Heaven before you. He had dark hair, cut short enough to look cute when he thinks and runs his hands through it. His voice was deep and masculine. Very dreamy voice. He couldn't sing to save his life, but even his speaking voice was pure beautiful music to my ears that I go crazy for. When I'm away from him, I have a little recap of his voice in my head. He also had a faint stubble on his face. I don't like beards at all, but on Mark, it was ruggedly handsome. He also had a strong build. Not grossly buff, but he had a nice-looking body. I remember when we had baptismals at the beach or at the nearby lake, and it was quite a sight to see him shirtless. God, how I miss that now. I used to fantasize running my cheek on his stubble. To feel the soft scratchy but pleasing feeling. His hands were big and strong and very gentle. I used to imagine how it would feel if those hands were on me. To feel every curve of my feminine body. Such a thing I wanted so much. Just once. I remember wanting to marry him if the chance does come. I never thought of being a wife in my life before, but when I was sure of my love for him, I thought of it so much. Then I thought of how making love would be like. Of course, I intend to stay a virgin, and I still am, but... We all have those guilty fantasies. I've read romance novels where the characters made love to each other and I loved reading every detail of it. Please, don't call me horny. It's just so damn interesting. But it was one thing reading it. I wanted to experience it. Every teenage girl does, right? I mean, who DOESN'T want to make love? (I don't ever say "sex" because it doesn't sound as personal and beautiful as "making love") But I do have my morals. I would rather wait. I have a strong belief in making every moment count and to make it beautiful. I wanted my first time to be on the wedding night. When we already made a promise of lifelong commitment and love to each other before the world and the Big Guy upstairs. When I know that the man I marry is the one for me and for me only and when we consummate it, it would be pure, holy and more beautiful than anything in the world. That's what i want different from those romance novels, where the two people making love do so before marrying. While it's lovely, I get disappointed, because it doesn't sound as beautiful as it would've been if the writer did have them marry. I guess I'm being preachy, but that how I personally see things. If you're in love with someone and you want to make love before marriage, I'd say go ahead. It's whatever you think is best. But for me, I want everything to have a purpose. A very strong one. And making love on a wedding night was all I dreamed of... With Mark. How I fantasize a wedding night. Being in Mark's arms then and forever. To tell him a thousand times "I love you" and to hear him say it back in that smooth, deep voice of his vibrating against my ear. To feel his chest on mine. To kiss his lips, jaw, chest and neck. To hear his heartbeat. To feel him nuzzle against me. To hear his steady breathing combined with my own. To feel the warmth of his strong body with my own naked skin. To feel his hands on my thighs and breasts. To be able to love him in the most personal and intimate way possible. But now, all I could ask was just to have just one friendly hug. He doesn't have to love me back. I just want to see him one more time. So I could smile again. But he's dead now. Like everyone else. I never got to tell him how much I loved him. I'll never marry him. I'll never make love with him (If you tell me, "There's other guys", remember: It's just ME and MY BROTHER. Theres NO WAY in Hell that that would happen, sicko. [If you didn't think that, ignore the insult and move on]). He's gone. If anything, he deserves to be in Heaven. He has to. He had such a pure, kind heart. A heart I envy so much. If he were with me now, he would make things so much better, no matter how bleak this world was.
It was then the next day after the huge loss, that I woke up one morning, with Peter sleeping next to me like the lazy brother he was, and I looked up to the sky. I wanted to take a breather since the sky was a bit bluer and clearer now. The sun was blindingly brighter now, but even so, the ask was around. I walked out the door and overlooked the city below, quiet like the day before. I took in a deep breath, sat down and buried my face in my lap. In a silent voice, I said to the air, "Why us? ... Why me?" Then I heard a soft flapping of wings. I lifted my head and looked up to the sky, and there was a small fluttering blue morpho butterfly, my most favorite butterfly of them all. It came towards me and flew around me. That was probably the first time I've ever smiled. And the only one for a long time, I bet. But still. It was very weird. Me smiling. On an Earth that is dead with no one living on it. It was so unfitting... But it was needed. When I saw the clouds part slowly, the sun shining down a spotlight-like ray of shine, I knew that it was a message of some sort. I didn't know what, but I had to figure it out. There was a reason why me and my brother were the only two people here. We had to do something. There was something to be done before everything is at peace. Before I am at peace.