Apparently, yesterday was a bloodbath all over the world.

Even though some fights had happened since the beginning, they were the exception.

People didn’t really want to kill each other. Mostly, people just wanted to keep with their lives.

Then, everyone who hadn’t fought on the past ten days had to fight yesterday, until the death.

Of course, a lot of people declined. And the System killed them.

Were the ones who refused the cowards one? Not brave enough to do what was necessary in order to survive?

Or was it the opposite?

Alone, I sat on the floor of my parent’s room, staring at the ceiling.

For hours, I stayed just like that. It didn’t seem worth to do anything. What was the point?

But eventually, I got up to eat. After a whole day without eating, I was hungry. I was still human.

I made a sandwich with ham and cheese.

Halfway eating it, I realized my hands were full of blood and dirty.

I still haven’t showered since coming back last night. I still haven’t cleaned myself since I had killed a man. Since I’d almost killed my brother. Since I’d buried my sister.

And now those sins were marked all over my sandwich.

But I couldn’t make myself to care about it.

Yesterday, I would had probably threw it away and made another one.

Today, it seemed fit. So I just continued eating.

When I finished, I came back to my parent’s bedroom and lay on the floor.

Then I started crying again.

After a few hours, I decided to get up. My eyes hurt of how dried they were. It was still during the afternoon.

So weird. It seemed like so much more time had passed.

What was I supposed to do now?

I went to the bathroom. While there, I decided to open the shower and entered into the cold water, still wearing my clothes.

There I sat, hugged my knees, and stayed like this with my eyes closed.

I didn’t cry this time.

When I got up, the sun was leaving the sky.

In that moment I knew my father wasn’t coming home. If he was alive, he would have already come back.

Weirdly, I was somewhat glad for that. I had no idea how I would be able to face him. Not after what I did. Not after what my brother had done.

It would have crushed me again seeing the pain on his face. And I wasn’t sure what would have happened after that.

So I was glad. But at the same time, I was feeling so, so alone. I wanted desperately to be with someone. I needed someone, anyone, to tell me there was a solution for this, to help me get through this madness.

I wasn’t sure what would happen with me if I stay alone with my own thoughts.

I needed to go somewhere else.

I went to my bedroom and picked my backpack. Inside of it, I put some spare clothes and some products that could be essential in the next few days. My toothbrush and a toothpaste. Soap. A lighter. A towel. Scissors.

I went to my parent’s bedroom, and for some reason I took the cash that I found. I wasn’t sure it would help me, but it wouldn’t hurt to have it around.

I went to our kitchen and packed the food that would last more and would be easier to carry around. Some alcohol, because it seemed useful. And all of our sharpest knives.

Finally, I went to our garage.

On the wall, there was my father’s baseball bat. An aluminum one, signed by Ted Williams. He had it since he was my age. I grabbed it.

From his workbench, I took some duct tape, an old steel hammer and the biggest of his wrenches.

I had no way to know what I would need later on. I didn’t even know what would happen tomorrow. It was better to take everything I could.

When everything was ready, I went to the living room, and looked at a picture of our family.

My mother, who died two years ago. My father, who left to never return again. My sister, who was brutally murdered. My brother, who brutally murdered her.

All of them lost. And at the center, there was me.

I felt even more lost than all of them combined.

I stared at myself. Stared at a smile I was sure I would never be able to make again.

Where would I go now? What would I do?

I found out that, for some reason, I still wanted to live.

Even in that chaos, I wanted to live, anyway.

I’d killed a man. I’d hit him, until half of his brain was splashed on the side walk.

Hadn’t I done that for a reason?

Hadn’t I fought, and won, because it was important for me to keep going? Hadn’t mattered, back then, to kill that man?

I had to keep living. I had to keep fighting.

Otherwise, why had I done it?

Why was I still alive?