Forgotten: A Short Story! Part Two!

Flashbacks ran laps around my head. Each memory, sharp and unforgiving, twisted through my mind. Laughter from hours ago echoed in my ears, distorted by the weight of guilt. My steps toward home were sluggish, as though the pavement itself tried to hold me back. My heart pounded, and the night seemed darker than it had moments before.

When I finally arrived, I stood trembling before my house. The windows were tinted with a warm glow. The lights were still on. Every step closer weighed down my body. I reached for the door, my fingers wrapping around the icy metal of the doorknob. A chill ran through me, not from the cold.

The door creaked open, a screeching sound that shattered the tense silence. The noise seemed to ripple outward, bouncing off the empty street. My breath caught in my throat.

“I’m sorry for sneaking out! It was a bad idea and I know it!” I yelled, my voice cracking. The words echoed into the emptiness. My eyes fluttered open, scared for the furious glares of my family—but there were none. The house was still.

The living room lay untouched. Cups with half-melted ice stood abandoned on the table, condensation pooling beneath them. The air held a strange stillness, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. I stepped forward, my hands trembling.

My feet brushed against the soft rug, the one my mother always insisted we kept our shoes off of. The sofa stood as it always did—the same one where I had collapsed after long school days, laughing at movies. But tonight, the cushions felt different. I sank into them, my chest heaving with shallow breaths. Tears slipped down my cheeks.

Buzz!

The sudden flash of static from the television jolted me up. The screen flickered, a pale glow through the dim room. The hollow sound came out, making the void that surrounded me loud. My mind raced. I stared, waiting for the static to form into something—a face, a voice, but it remained nothing more than meaningless noise. 

Alone. I was alone.

I stumbled upstairs to my room, looking for some sort of sign of life. I reached my room. The carpet met my shoes, soft yet unwelcoming. Deja vu washed over me. I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump that formed in my throat. My eyes darted to my phone on the nightstand. With trembling fingers, I picked it up and unlocked the screen.

“Reporting now, live. Attention all residents of Vermont: An immediate and mandatory evacuation order has been issued for the entire state. Due to an unprecedented and rapidly escalating threat, authorities are requiring all individuals to evacuate Vermont without delay.”

My heart stopped.

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