XAngel-of-GriefX

July 4th, 2014. 11:00 P.M. Dear little Sister, I'm so hungry. Little brother broke out of his room; he wasn't dead. I ran to the basement, but all I could grab in time was you, a pen, and the sandwich I had in my hand. It's dark in here, but there's one small little bulb. It's old, and it could go out any second. So that's why I'm writing to you now. You see, I can still hear the television from down here. I had left it on while I was still up there. The President, our leader, has declared that the U.S. Army is to launch a nuclear warhead at our own country. It's a good thing that I won't even be here when the bomb hits, because I think

July 3rd, 2014. 5:00 P.M. Dear little Sister, My pen did run out of ink. Good thing I finally found a pencil underneath the couch. The infection is still spreading. The president met with other World Leaders and they declared a global epidemic. We still can't leave the country, and we're not even supposed to leave our homes anymore. The helicopters have stopped taking videos of this whole mess. They've started shooting the infected instead. Not even sick people anymore; evidently they're not classified as human. Infected, doesn't that sound so...grisly? Mom is dead now. I'm sure of it. I can smell her body; I think it's decomposing faste

July 2nd, 2014. 10:00 P.M. Dear little Sister, My pen is running out of ink. I can't find any pencils or pens anywhere. Mom is still wandering around, banging on the walls and doors of her room. Little brother keeps telling me to let her out, but I won't let him. I can't help but think that she is ending up like the people who keep coming to our doors (and windows recently) every once and a while. I found out that little brother snuck one chicken strip away from the plate that mom had before I could throw it away, and ate it. He is getting sick now too. Mom isn't making noise in her room anymore. I think she's dead. But I'm too scared to