The village we come from was beyond remote. To reach civilization, we had to journey through various roads, paths, and steps. Our way of life was extremely primitive. We grew our own food on self-cultivated land, bathed in shallow streams, and cooked our meals with self-improvised wooden stoves. Our population had always been the same, nineteen, until it was wiped by a lethal virus.
My sister and I were the only survivors while everyone else died within a day. “Take care of your sister,” our father said with his dying breath, “Find civilization, survive this.”
For three days, we journeyed across rivers and farmlands. That first afternoon, my sister began to cough and by the time night had descended, she had become feverish. “You go on ahead,” she urged.
I shook my head, “No, I’m not leaving you.” I refuse to be the sole survivor.
I carried her on my back and journeyed on. By the time we reached the steps, I was exhausted and that’s when I heard my sister murmur, “I’m going home.”
I am participating in Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writer, where we write a piece between 100 and 150 words (more or less 25 words) in length inspired by the photo prompt above.