Eventually, I find myself in the lobby again, near the main stairwell. It’s bigger than the one by my storeroom but it doesn’t go all the way to the roof, just the first and second floors. I haven’t been upstairs since… since yesterday morning… when everything fell apart. My fingers find the handrail, my foot rests on the first step. I take a slow, deep breath, stalling, unsure. Do I really want to go up there? No. I don’t want to, but where else can I go? It’s the end of everything and I’m still here, all alone. I take another breath, sharp and deep, clench my teeth and start to climb. Once I’m moving, it’s not so bad, I just keep going but the tight feeling in my tummy stays. There are fewer still shapes on the first floor, fewer still on the second. Up here, some teachers, not many kids. The bell hadn’t rung yet so most of them were still outside. They hadn't gone to class. They’re just… out there… out there in the rain.

  Dark grey clouds, the drum of heavy tears against the windows. The plaza, the field, the playground, submerged in giant puddles growing larger by the minute. I can barely see the buses through the downpour; the cars, still standing in the road and in the drop-off lane, phantoms, hardly more than mist. But the still shapes… so many. Dark blue blobs, cold and wet and defenceless in the storm. Out there, laid bare beneath the pitiless, unceasing torrent.

  I don’t know how long I stand, watching the rain. My breath fogs the window but I stay, I don’t move. When the sun finds an opening in the clouds, when the sky lights up, radiant, and the flood abates for a few fleeting minutes, I remain. Just me.

  And then, abruptly, I turn. My feet find their way and I just follow them. Back, back, back through the upstairs hallway, unseeing, unthinking, unfeeling. I find my staircase and touch the rail. I don’t know why, maybe just to steady myself. Up or down, it makes no difference; the absolute emptiness, the screaming silence stretches out in every direction, an ocean, vast and unfathomable; there’s nothing out there, no one.

  Up again. Up towards the empty sky. The door to the roof is still open, still hooked back, but its struggle has ended. The wind has died down but the rain is back with a vengeance, pummeling the tarred surface without mercy. I stare out into the deluge, eyes sweeping the roof in search of nothing. I have no idea why I’m here. Why am I here? There are no answers up here. There are no answers. But I stay. I stare through the fog, through the rain. Stare at nothing. I drop to my knees, sit on my feet until my legs go dead and still I stay.

  Why did I get left behind? Why am I here all alone? Why did it have to be me? Why?

  Why can’t I cry anymore?

  BRRRRRRRRRRING! “AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” The sound bursts from the deepest part of me, convulsing in my throat, vibrating in my ears, my head, drowning even the bell. I stand up, turning in one movement, my noodle legs struggling to follow my command. I race down the stairs with a burning rage inside me, ready to do something but my foot finds an unexpected, soft, spongy thing just half way down the first flight and I slip, landing hard on my bum and riding the last few steps to the landing below.

  “Ow.” It hurts. I feel the wind knocked out of me, the pain is really bad, aching, throbbing in my thighs, my bum, my lower back. I crawl from the steps to the landing, my breaths sharp and shallow, the scrapes on my knees now prickling too, and look up at the thing on the stairs. My stockings… my underwear… still wet with my pee.

  When I stand, my legs are shaky. Bolts of pain run through my entire body and I wince with every movement. I climb the steps again, retrieving the little wad of fabric and turn, deflated, limping back towards the storeroom. A cold, clammy ball of shame in my hand. At the bottom of the stairs, I stop for a moment, assessing. Transient thoughts wander through my head, lost in the hollow, echoing abyss. I drop the cloth on the floor and enter my storeroom, closing the door with a click, shutting out the world.

  BRRRRRRRRRRING!

  BRRRRRRRRRRING!

  BRRRRRRRRRRING!

  BRRRRRRRRRRING!

  I cover my ears and block it out. What good will it do to get up? All I want, all I can do is bury myself in my blankets and sleep. I don’t dream, I don’t think, I don’t move. I don’t want to. I don’t want to live. I don’t want to.

  The rain comes and goes, I hear the gentle whisper and the deafening silence through the walls of my cage and drift far away, then back, back into this nightmare. When I open my eyes, still here, still safe, still alone. When I’m gone, it feels like it’s over in a moment. It’s the end of the world… and I’m the only one here to see it. The only one left to grieve. The only one left to cry. But I can’t cry, there are no more tears, not in the whole world.

  Cold. When I open my eyes, the fog holds tight to my mind. My eyes are puffy and thick with sleep but something is different. Something is… off. It’s not just the air; it’s me, a cold that clings to me, seeping in like… like water. “Aaaaaaah!” I fall out of my nest, kicking away the soaking pile. The boxes, the blankets, my clothes, everything is wet. I peed myself. Again! In my bed! A hot flush of shame burns my cheeks anew. It’s everywhere. Everything, all of it. Soaked. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could disappear, but the cold, wet reality claws me tight, like cold, sticky fingers on my body. Another disgusting mess!

  I clamber to my feet, my new pants clinging uncomfortably to my legs. My teeth chatter, not just from the cold, but something else I can’t place. What do I do now? I need to get out of these wet clothes, but everything is wet. Everything I have! I look around wildly, my eyes darting from the soaked blankets to the damp cardboard boxes. I don’t have any dry clothes… again!

  My gaze lands on my uniform, hanging behind the door. It’s not soaking wet anymore but it still feels damp. Damp from the cold, stale air. It smells… different. Not like pee. Not like stale air. It smells of… laundry detergent. Faint, but there. It smells of Mom. A sharp, unexpected pang twists in my chest, so sudden it makes me gasp. It’s the smell of home; of clean clothes; of Mom’s hands folding them, putting them away. I can almost hear her hum as she irons, almost smell the warm scent of steam and fabric softener in the air.

  My throat tightens, and for a moment, I think the tears will come again. But they don’t. The feeling just hangs there, out of reach. I look at the door to the hallway, a light tug of homesickness tempting me to go, but I don’t go. I don’t move. I’m scared. There’s nothing there for me anymore, no one. I know that, I know what I’m going to find there and I just can’t. I can’t see them like that.

  The feeling subsides, slowly, and I feel numb, empty again, cold. Cold and wet and ashamed. Alone. Almost robotically, I gather my sodden blankets in my arms, hauling them out into the corridor and dumping them in a heap on the floor. Next, the boxes, stained dark brown with the evidence. Now what? No clothes, no blankets, soaking wet with my own stupidity…

  What do I do? There’s no washing machine here, no bath, no… shower… Showers. Showers! There are showers in the Gym! Hot water! I grab the blankets again and turn toward the gym, nearly losing my balance in my haste. I skid to a stop before I’ve even taken three steps, gathering up my stockings before I go. There’s a little, tiny flicker of excitement in me, just a tiny, microscopic spark. I can almost feel the warm water flowing over my skin as I race through the school towards the gym.

  But the stupid door is locked! “The door’s locked!” Why is the door locked? I kick it as hard as I can, a loud bang reverberating through the halls. My aching legs don’t like that. Neither does the door. It’s solid and I just bounce off like a… like a kid… landing in a heap on top of my pee soaked blankets.

  “This sucks.” The words sound strange in the silence, like they don’t belong. My legs ache from the fall, the cold, wet feeling making me shiver again. I stare at the gym door, solid and unyielding. Locked. Why is it locked? I kick it again, a dull thud that echoes mockingly. But it’s no use; the door remains, impassive as the dead.

  There’s got to be a way in, right? Keys. Who would have keys to the gym? Mr. Jacobs, the gym teacher, probably, but where the heck is he? Or maybe the principal, Mr. Klerk? Mr. Klerk, I saw him somewhere… Or the cleaners? My stomach tightens. I don't want to do this again. I don’t want to pick through their pockets. I don't want to see their still shapes, I don’t want to have to look at them anymore. But the gym is right here, and there’s no way around. The thought of hot water, of being clean and warm after all these miserable days… I crack my knuckles, just like mom always hated. Just once more… always… just once more.

  Down the hallway, the staff room beckons. If they’re anywhere, probably there, right? One of the cleaning ladies was there, and I realise, I don’t even know their names. All this time they looked after us, kept our school clean, out of sight, and I don’t even know who they were. And there are so many more still shapes. The idea of searching through their pockets, their bags, makes my skin crawl now. Why does everything just keep getting harder?

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The principal’s office. He’s gotto have keys, right? And it’s closer than the staff room. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I need those keys. Back to the lobby, again. It’s like an infuriating scavenger hunt. Every time I take a step forward, I have to run all the way back to where I started! I turn and head towards the lobby. The floor still glitters with glass from the broken vending machines, and the piles of odd shoes and mismatched clothes still litter the reception office. My eyes dart to the principal’s office door, slightly ajar, pitch dark inside, pitch dark outside the windows. What time is it? and will it ever stop raining? I push the door and creep inside, electricity in my blood. The light flicks on. No one.

  There’s a big, big desk with a comfy leather chair. Pens, paper, notes and files lie in neat piles on the surface. The walls, wood panelled and decked with laden bookshelves. I’ve been in here before but I never really noticed all this stuff. There’s a painting of an enormous sailing ship on the wall behind the desk, flanked by huge, heavy textbooks in floor to ceiling shelves. In the corner beside the door stands a large, wooden key cabinet. It's locked. Of course it's locked. My heart sinks. I scan the desk, the floor. Nothing. There are drawers in the desk too, six of them. They’re not locked, but no keys either, just pens and paperclips.

  “Ugh.” It’s like running in circles, one way and then the other! I turn and head towards the lobby again, the main reception desk. Maybe… maybe there? Three drawers, all locked. Of course they are... Why would anything be easy? On the desk, loose papers, a pen, a laptop but it’s super neat and tidy and there’s nothing of value; nothing I need; no keys.

  My eyes settle on the still shape behind the reception desk, Ms. Langenberg, the reception lady. She looks like she fell out of her chair. Her eyes are closed, and she’s kind of on her side, head resting on a scattered stack of forms but she looks almost peaceful… almost like she’s sleeping. She was young, really young, and pretty, and… nice. Looking at her makes me feel dirty… dirtier. I look away but her face is in my head now. Stop it! Just focus on the job! They’re dead! DEAD! They’re not coming back…

  I rub my face with my hands, they’re cold, ice cold, and they smell like pee. Yuck. My eyes flicker back to Ms. Langenberg, she always had a fancy white handbag with her. Maybe in there? It’s under the desk, by her feet; I drag it out, my stomach twisting up inside me, I feel like a criminal, but I have to do it. I have to.

  A loud snap of the clasp and I dump the contents of the soft leather bag out on the ground. Nope, just car keys, just tissues, just lipstick... “shit.” The word comes out unbidden and I clap my hand over my mouth, glancing around with anticipation of the disapproval that will never come, but there’s no reason to be good anymore, is there? Is there?

  Her pockets. I close my eyes for a second, no. But the warm water calls to me. My aching body pleading, begging. And I cave, like a dirty traitor. “Sigh.” I have to. I have to do it. My fingers brush against the silky smooth fabric of her blazer. Her body is soft and squishy, not like Sarah’s. It’s strange. I slide my hand into her pocket, the sweet, cloying smell of her body catching in my throat, making me gag. Empty. The other pocket. Empty too. Nothing. Nothing there, but the stink is overwhelming now. Right here, so close, it reeks like nothing I’ve ever smelled before and I back away as fast as I can.

  The gym keys aren't here. Where else? The staff room; the cleaners’ room? Wait, the cleaners! They always had extra keys for everything; master keys probably, so they can keep everything tidy. Someone there must have had keys.

  Back to the staff room; still the same, water still pooled on the floor. Mr. Peterson, Mrs. Thompson, Mrs. Davies, the cleaning lady, the principal… all right where I left them, but the smell… It’s way worse than before, way worse than the receptionist. The whole room reeks, it’s horrific! Greasy, sticky, coating my mouth and nose. I can taste it. I want to puke but the feeling just sits there in my tummy, the sick, awful twisting feeling.

  I make a b-line for the principal, suffocating in the thick, stinking fog. My fingers fumble over his pockets, blind, searching as I fight the urge to throw up all over him. Phone, wallet, no, no, keys. Keys! I dive into his left side pocket, tearing the heavy clump of keys away from him and dash for the door, dragging it shut behind me and collapsing in a heap against the far wall, retching, heaving uncontrollably. But nothing comes out. I haven’t eaten, haven’t had a drink for how long? I don’t know.

  Clutching the keys to my chest, I just breathe, eyes watering from the convulsions in my tummy. I feel utterly spent and I just want to lie down but I can’t. I’ve gotto fix my bed. The fat ring of keys is heavy in my hands, there are so many… so many keys. A tangle of silver and brass and ugly, dull grey. One of them has to be it. One of them has to work. I haul myself up, my legs still shaky, aching with a deep, rhythmic throb, and turn towards the gym, holding tight the solid jumble of metal, like a lifeline.

  The sight of the gym door makes my heart beat quicker. The keys in my hand feel heavier than before, a solid weight against my palm. So many of them. I lift the fat ring and eye it dubiously, the keys clinking and jangling softly. Which one? There's no labels, no tags, just a massive blob of metal. My stomach clenches again. This is gonna take forever…

  I pick the first key, a small, brassy one, and try it in the keyhole. It doesn't fit. I try another, a longer, dull grey one. It slides in, but won't turn. It doesn’t come out easy when I pull; the rasp of the tumblers is loud and gritty. My hands are still shaking, and the keys feel colder, harder, with each failed attempt. I try a third, then a fourth, each one met with the same unyielding resistance. The throb in my legs intensifies as I stand, a dull ache that mirrors the mounting frustration in my chest. Just work. Please, just work.

  The keys clatter together, a harsh, impatient sound. Cold air drags the warmth from my soggy clothes, and the lingering smell from the staff room seems to cling to me, sticking inside my nose and mouth, my lungs, hanging in the air around me. My eyes dart from the lock to the jumble in my hand, then back to the door. I try to breathe, slow and deep; I try to slow myself down but it doesn't help. Each wrong key just hits harder. I’m so cold, my body is screaming but I pick another key. A silver one with a slightly curved head. It slides in smoothly, like butter, like it belongs. I feel a flutter of anticipation through my entire body, finally! But when I try to turn it, nothing. The lock doesn’t turn.

  A silver key, silver, like that one, maybe? Leaning down, I take a good, hard look at the lock. The keyhole is kind of shaped like a five. The silver key is the other way around. Another silver key, it also fits perfectly but it doesn’t turn. “Gah” I gotto get them off this stupid ring. The ring is nothing special, but pulling with all my might, I barely manage to bend the metal. It’s enough though. The keys slide off, no trouble and I dump them on the floor in a heap, separating the different kinds, the ones that are the wrong way around and the ones that are just never going to fit. There’s forty-seven keys and only ten are the right shape.

  Please. A satisfying click as the lock gives way. A smooth, gliding, metallic swish and a soft, mechanical thud. All I can do is clench my fists in satisfaction. Yes! Yes! The sound is barely audible, but the feeling is like nothing I’ve ever felt before. My breath hitches, and a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor of excitement runs through me. I did it.

  Grabbing the handle, I throw myself at the door but again, I’m thrown off like a kitten. Oh… I gotto pull it. I pull the heavy door towards me. It groans loudly, the closer resisting my effort, but it finally opens. The air inside is cool and still, smelling faintly of old rubber and floor wax. It’s clean, but darkness permeates the enormous space, making the towering ceilings seem as far away as the sky itself. I slap the light switch and balance on the sports lines out of habit, but then I stop… What am I doing? The silence here is different from the rest of the school. It’s bigger, deeper, the echoes, hollow, swallowing any sound I make.

  My legs ache with every step as I walk across the polished wooden floor. The closer I get to that sweet, sweet shower, the harder my desperation seems to squeeze me. I push through the doors into the change rooms with a huff of effort and stop. The air here is warm, humid. The smell of chlorine and old towels hangs heavy. Rows of lockers line the walls with benches in between and, like everywhere else, it’s spotlessly clean. The showers are at the far end, a row of closed stalls. Hot water. Please, hot water.

  I walk to the nearest shower stall, pushing the door aside, and reach for the tap. My fingers fumble, cold and clumsy, as I twist the handle. A gush of water bursts out, strong and clear. I gasp, a small, choked sound of relief. It’s warm. So wonderfully warm. My shoulders drop as a wave of pure, unadulterated relief washes over me. It’s water. Clean, hot water.

  My jeans and hoodie are still damp and cold, clinging uncomfortably, still carrying the scent of pee, the faint, sickening smell from the staff room. I strip them off, shivering violently as the cold air hits my skin and throw them in a heap in the shower, under the gushing water. Diving in after them, I stomp them beneath my bare feet, squishing the stink from the sodden fabric with all my might.

  The delicious, warm water hits my skin, a shocking, blissful heat that makes me want to cry with relief. I rub my arms, my legs, my face, scrubbing fiercely, trying to wash away not just the dirty, sticky, damp feeling, but the lingering thought, the feeling of their pockets, the shame, the fear. I scrub and scrub until my skin is red and stinging, until the deep, soothing warmth has driven the chill from my bones, is all that I can feel; until I can’t smell anything but hot steam and chlorine… and nothing.

  Bliss. Is it really possible for such comfort to exist in this scary new world? Basking in the warmth, my mind finally turns from the feeling, back to myself. I look at my hands, wrinkly from the water, my arms pink and soft. It just feels amazing to be clean again, to look at me and not see filth, not smell… that. But looking down, the ugly bruises jump right out at me, deep purple and brown and rude, running up the back of my legs. The ache is kind of there again, a slow, warm throb. It’s bearable. It’s bearable.

  When I finally step out of the shower, my skin is tingling, raw from the hot water and vigorous scrubbing. I feel light, almost floaty, like a heavy weight has been lifted from me. I’m clean and warm, after all these days. It’s glorious. The cold air hits me again, making me shiver, but it’s a different kind of cold now, a fresh, invigorating cold.

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