Mentor Stories

An Angel In Hell

The world is in peaceful chaos. Guns blazing, shells and bodies littering the ground, sun blotted out by grenade smoke, and all the while, a deafening silence. But it’s always been  like this for me. The quiet. Ever since I was born. I couldn’t hear voices then, and I can’t hear the voices now. Invading the thoughts, sneaking around the mental barriers, and striking when the mind is weak. In adults, it takes effect at once, plants thoughts in their heads. Some even become overnight mass-murderers. The fighting started a couple of months ago. Undeveloped brains of young children seem to take a longer amount of time, kids around my sister Lily’s age just starting to respond. I can only worry about what would happen if Lily turned. It's horrible watching them between the cracks of our boarded-up windows hacking at each-other on the streets. And the gruesome corpses they leave in their wake. But even through our careful rationing, we might be joining the carcasses. Because our food has run out.

I’m dreading to tell Lily the bad news, but it seems like she has already found out. 

Angel, she signs, it will all be fine. 

I am loathe to bring her with me to the danger of the roads, but I can’t leave her home by herself. I’m sure this is what our parents would want me to do if they were still alive.

Better now than never, I glumly gesture back. 

It’s a pain dismantling the planks on the back door, but they are essential for our safety. We eventually finish the job and sneak out, staying in the shadows of buildings. Our goal is to find food. Most people would think the supermarket would be empty by now, but the infected seem to be more focused on killing than staying alive themselves. I suddenly feel footsteps vibrating the pavement. 

Get down! I sign to Lily frantically while pulling her into a building. We press our backs into the inside wall and stop moving.

The footsteps stop and I know the person is looking through the windows. While the feet are still. I shift my gaze towards the back of the room. There are hundreds of weapons. Firearms, knives, even heavy arms like rocket launchers. I see Lily is noticing the same thing. 

Should we kill him? Lily mimes, drawing a finger across her throat.

The phrase seems almost alien coming from an eight-year-old, but before I can question it, the footsteps start up again and slowly fade away. We relax and examine the room for a separate way out just in case the figure is still patrolling the area. It turns out there is none. I quickly peek out and find the street empty. I make to leave but Lily is still lingering. She resists my movements to grab her arm, so I ask her why.

Should we grab a few of these? she responds, pointing towards the shelves. Just in case? 

Feeling conscientious, I agree, and I realise I still remember the basics from the time our parents took us to the range. I wish they were still with us. But instead of being grateful for the past excursion, I’m scared. Scared of the look of hunger in Lily’s eyes.

As we venture outside, Lily takes out her weapon and I’m not sure if it’s just my imagination, but she seems to start stroking it, caressing it gently.

Lily? I ask after a while.

She sharply turns, trains her weapon at my face without any hesitation and I flinch back, drawing my own. I realise what this means. The voices have taken over. Lily doesn’t say anything, only smiles, somewhat sadly. If I fire, I am the real monster. I can’t hear them. But it turns out even deaf people have their own voices of evil.

Lily cried tears of blood to match my ones of water. 

-By Anonymous