Chapter 1: Rubble
My name is Zoë Donovan. I am 19 years old. Is that how people start diaries? I guess that’s how I’m starting mine. I live in a tin can in the middle of the desert. I used to live in a mansion, but that came crashing down. Literally.
There was a incident at the local lab one month ago. No one knows what happened there, but the results were devastating. Tectonic plates started moving in odd patterns, volcanoes started erupting out of nowhere and temperatures skyrocketed.
My dad was lead scientist at the lab, he told us there was nothing to worry about. That we would be safe. Now he’s dead under the rubble.
My dad was lead scientist at the lab, he told us there was nothing to worry about. That we would be safe. Now he’s dead under the rubble.
After the house collapsed everything changed. They died, and I was hospitalized. When I woke back up the government had been dissolved, and power was now in the hands of Glassbolt inc. They were already prominent before all of this chaos but now they are completely unopposed. They don’t care about our lives, or our wellbeing. They just care about making money. Glassbolt inc. have put down standard issue container homes right where survivors’ houses used to be. In the middle of the rubble. In the middle of those memories.
I was gonna go to college after the summer, and study the philosophy of law at BU. After that I was gonna get a job, get married and live a happy life. I guess that won’t be happening. There’s just me in my can now, living off 3- eyed fish and trying not to evaporate when I step outside. My mom was an engineer, she worked with dad. They were… displeased by my interest in ‘woozy hippie crap’ and would’ve much preferred to see me surrounded by numbers, pretending life only comes down to ones and zeroes.
Well, it doesn’t. I can safely say that after I was the only one that crawled out from under our ceiling and had to see them, dead.
Well, it doesn’t. I can safely say that after I was the only one that crawled out from under our ceiling and had to see them, dead.
I remember the philosopher Sartre said ‘Hell is other people.’ He was wrong. Hell is the lack others. Hell is talking to a piece of paper instead of your loved ones.