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From the diary of Richard James Mace
I used to have a home to go to. Honestly, I don’t remember it that well. There are some things that stand out quite strongly, like what paintings my father had put on the walls, but other things, like the positioning of the telephone, just make me wonder. The truth is, we always hold on to the little things because they make us feel safe and whole. We’re all a part of something, but said thing is quite enormous and we’re anything but. Life goes on without us, but we can’t go on without life.
In time, you start to expect things. People are like that. Give them a cake every day for a month and, the moment it stops, they’ll kick up a fuss. They won’t just be grateful for the gift; it’s far too late for that. So, when you have a home, friends, a family…well, you start to expect that they’re going to stay. You expect your stories to have happy endings. You expect to have a shower waiting for you whenever you want it and a hairbrush and maybe a razor to shave with. You don’t expect that anything can change in a moment, and yet you still see it happen every day. Life is just a series of moments strung together, each one available for you to make the most of. Most of all, you expect that, when you wake up in a morning, it will be just like every other day. Maybe you’ll do something special, but you’ll still fit the same routine.
I remember the day that it happened. That wasn’t like any other day. I had always been a bad sleeper, but the sounds of screams roused me just before the explosions began. I watched my building being smashed apart. It all happened so fast, and every time I blinked I was hoping so hard that I was going to wake up from some horrendous nightmare.
Chapter One
The End Of The World
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