I know without a doubt that the person who stares back at me from the mirror is not my reflection. No matter how terrifying this idea, however, I hope she comes back soon. I can’t move unless she’s here.
After a year I opened the hatch to the bomb shelter and looked outside for a moment before weeping, then ducking back inside and bolting it closed for another year. I turned to my family and, still weeping, told them that it wasn’t safe to go outside yet. I think the tears really sold it for me.
I lie awake, too terrified to move. I can hear my husband’s snoring from behind me, and I have the scars to remind me of how violent he can be if disturbed. Most of the marks are faded now, so many months after he died from the poison I put in his coffee.