Sidewalk Stains

#curatorreview

If you looked at the sidewalk enough, you could see this town was hit hard. Luna noticed the dried blood stains, almost unidentifiable, etched in between the rough bumps and stopping at the weed filled cracks; she stopped, noticing a fresh mark, and turned.

Cat didn't mean to run away. She meant to turn back, and Luna knew it. But neither of them were used to the sounds and the smell of rotting bodies, and her feet moved without her asking them to. How could Luna blame Cat? She was 9 years old, and she was frightened.

The pistol was held tightly in Luna's grip, and it seemed to lift on its own accord. Luna decided it was not she who was doing it; no, it was the hand itself, the hand whose reflex had been etched with muscle memory in the past week. She screamed and cried, she tried to push it down, but soon it was level with her sister. Her dead sister.

Her mom had been out grocery shopping that day. Luna and Cat had decided to go outside, and Luna was pushing her on the swings when her phone gave the shrill ring. She had ignored it, but the voicemail said it all.

"Honey, get your sister inside now. Lock all of the doors and windows until I get home, okay? I-"

She was the first to go. Their father went three days after, shielding the girls as a zombie had finally gotten into their window.

She heard a sharp noise, and then the hand changed direction. Her eyes didn't notice; no, her eyes stared at the place where her sister's neck once met her shoulder, now torn away. It became more and more blurry as the hand effortlessly carried itself to its destination beside her head.

If you looked at the sidewalk enough, you could see two fresh blood stains etched between the bumps. It's best to keep walking.