*waka* Because I couldn't really think of anything, I decided to do a weird monologue thing for this story I'm working on. So uh here is Fox's random internal monologue for prompt 7. PLEASE NOTE: I did write this in 10 minutes (well, a little over to finish the last sentence) but I saved no time for editing. So the writing style is pretty meh. (I'm so sorry) Also please note that it's currently 3:30 am. (sorry....)
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I used to think the world was mine for the taking. I was spurred by my own undying curiosity, and I desired nothing more than to solve the world's mysteries and learn everything about the world upon which I lived. There were an infinite number of questions to be answered, riddles to be solved, adventures to be had, and I wanted a part of it all.
But I wasn't a very wise child. I scored well in my classes when I took an interest in them, but as for general sense, I was seriously lacking.
I knew the world was in a poor state. I knew the supplies were running out. I knew everyone was on edge, ready to lunge into battle with guns drawn and no regard for human life in mind. I knew all of that. But I didn't care. In my mind, my own curiosity was far more important than the petty concerns of Man.
I used to believe that I could change the world. I wasn't sure where I'd gotten the idea, but often, I attributed it to my mother's philosophy: Anyone can make a difference if they work hard enough. I always envied her outlook, even when I was a child. I couldn't see the world like she did, and neither could my father. And after every conversation with her, I'd run out of her bedroom and into my own, duck under my blanket, and cry.
I wasn't upset with her; her commentary made the world we lived in seem brighter. But even as her smile lingered, growing broader day by day, her health diminished. Father refused to tell me how she'd gotten sick, but that was likely for the better. I was too young to understand. But that didn't change how devastated I'd be when she gave me that warm smile on her sickly face, shadows clinging to her hollow cheeks, her sunken eyes.
I used to think the world wasn't as bad as it was. But that was because I was a fool. I neglected to notice the cruelty and unfairness of the world no matter how many times it was obvious. I refused to accept that the world would not hesitate to chew me up and spit me out for the vultures. I had to believe there was some good left in the world, a final beacon amidst a dying breed, a last survivor.
I used to think I would be alone. I'd imagine my mother would die, and my father would follow soon after, likely by his own hand. Without parents, I'd live in the Junkyard, scavenging for scrap to survive, hiding in rotten cardboard boxes to shield myself from the rain, praying to a nonexistent God to spare my life.
My mother passed away. My father remained by my side, and though he grew distant, he fought the temptation to flee.
And while I felt lonely, I wasn't alone. Because soon after my mother's death, I met a boy. And we made a promise to stay together no matter what.
When I remember the sincerity of his voice, the genuine smile, his firm grasp of my hand, I almost can't believe he disappeared.
