A million thoughts, jagged and sharp, tore through my mind. What was I going to do? Every fiber of my being screamed to protect Susan, to shield her from the horrors that now stalked our every step.
How were we going to survive, two lost souls in a world turned upside down? Was Mom okay? Was Pa okay?
The questions were a relentless drumbeat in my head, each beat echoing the chilling fear: would those bad men come back?
I looked into Susan's eyes, and my heart seized. They were empty, truly empty, like windows into a vacant house, reflecting none of the light or life that should have been there.
We couldn't just sit here, waiting for the slow, creeping rot of despair to consume us. The only thing we could really do was run, to flee far away and leave every shattered piece of our lives behind. But no, those kinds of thoughts, so selfish and cowardly, wouldn't do me or Susan any good, especially when it came to our parents.
Our parents! How could I even entertain the idea of abandoning them to those unspeakable men? The thought alone was a betrayal.
I forced the words past my dry, constricted throat, my voice a raspy whisper. "Susan, go pack my bag and your bag."
Her brow furrowed, a faint shadow of confusion crossing her vacant features. "What? Why?" she mumbled, her voice barely audible.
"Because I have a plan," I urged, trying to infuse my tone with a strength I didn't feel. "And pack jackets too. It's going to be cold."
Susan, still clearly dazed, slowly turned and shuffled towards our shared room, her small frame looking even more fragile than usual.
I moved towards the kitchen, my stomach a knot of churning dread and a desperate flicker of resolve. The shelves, once brimming with the comforting abundance of our life, were now mostly bare, a stark testament to the famine that gripped our city.
I managed to scrounge up a few spoonfuls of watery, thin soup and some pieces of bread, so stale they crumbled to the touch. With trembling hands, I gathered the pitiful provisions and carefully placed them in a small sling bag, its worn fabric a scratch against my shoulder.
As I walked back to our room, each creak of the floorboards beneath my feet sounded like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the apartment.
The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken fears. There, in the dim light, Susan was meticulously packing our worn bags, her small fingers fumbling with the rough fabric, her movements slow and deliberate.
"Susan, put blankets and pillows in the bags," I instructed, my eyes darting around the room, desperately searching for anything else that might offer us a sliver of comfort or protection on our desperate journey.
"Oh, and here's the food we're taking; put it in the bag as well."
She nodded, her face etched with a grim acceptance, and carefully added the meager provisions. While she finished, I rummaged through a dusty, forgotten chest in the corner, my fingers brushing against forgotten trinkets and memories.
I found a sturdy, though scuffed, pair of boots for myself, their leather cracked but still intact. Miraculously, I unearthed a pair of surprisingly well-preserved boots that would fit Susan, their small size a poignant reminder of her fragile innocence.