24...

Warily, the number floats about my mind... vague, wispy, circling around in the last of my sanity.

24...

24...

...what had that number meant again?

I pinch myself a little; digging crescent moons into the soft of my palms. 24; the number of years I have survived so far in this war-ridden world. I can't let myself forget that. 

2078, that is the year.

32, that is my age.

The numbers surround me. I rely on them wholely. If not for them, my mind would've surely fallen into a state of dementia by now. These numbers are the only thing I have left.

They are always there; forever changing, but there all the same. Unlike everything else on this dying Earth.

24 years of calamity have shaped this sorrowful land; scarring and charring it to rubble. The grass-blades that sprung up with sprightly ease are now doused in red pigments, the green of their spring youth long forgotten. The sky that used to be so angelicly blue is now covered in layers upon layers of smoke. Looking at it now, I almost wonder at times if I had merely conjured up that color. All of it seems so unreal now.

It had started out so small. A couple words of contempt. A mere scowl at a stranger. Perhaps a few punches or shots thrown in here and there. Who could've predicted how fast it'd grow out of control?

In 24 years, not one street was left untouched, not one was home left unburdened. Not one child was left an innocent. Not one soul was left pure.

Not one heart was left unbroken.

2,980,000,000; the last count of the people dead.

1,786,000,000; the last count of those missing.

Now, I stare ahead of me at the vast expanse of scorched land; dark and lifeless under a thick, gray sky. Behind me, an abandoned town lay silent, just as void of life.

Where had the days gone when children could smile without fear? Where had the days gone when the cherry blossoms still bloomed? Where had the days gone when the swings clanged from the constant switching of turns? That sound was so unlike the hollow creak of them now as the wind howls solemnly through the thick, metal chains. 

0; the population of people in this town now.

1; myself, the number of visitors passing through.

I miss the days when there had been 3. My father, my mother, and I. But those days, as everything else, had ended far too soon.

2067; the year my parents had died.

I close my eyes; the wind whips harshly, stinging my face. It's as if it is telling me to hurry, be on with it, or make my decision now.

32; my age.

24; the number of years I have survived in this calamity.

1... the number of lives I have.

...the years of wandering have made me weary and tired.

Soon, that number may be zero.