Short Story - Different

This was my entry for this year's Bristol Short Story Prize. Unfortunately it didn't make the cut, but the good news is that I can now post it here. Enjoy!

Different


We haven't heard a siren in over a week. I can't say whether this is a good or a bad sign. Perhaps it means that the danger is over - or perhaps it means that everyone else is dead, and we're the only ones left. There's no way to say for sure unless we leave the house, and neither of us is willing to take that risk.

It's been a month since the Invasion, and in all that time, Veronica has been my only companion. She happened to be visiting that day, and we were watching Eastenders when the TV screen flickered and suddenly we were watching bombs falling all over the globe, sent by an unknown alien race. Veronica turned to me. "I can't believe this," she said. "Why have they interrupted Eastenders for this sci-fi rubbish? I want to know what happens to Phil!"

"Shh," I replied, listening intently to the broadcast. Something in the newsreader's tone told me that this wasn't a joke.

The bombs continued to fall for the next three weeks, each one filled with toxic chemicals that could wipe out a whole town, each one announced by a loud siren. But now, the sirens have gone quiet.

The world is different now. I don't need to leave the house to understand that much. The taps don't run. The toilet doesn't flush. There's no electricity. I could use my laptop for a while, until the battery ran out - seeing the date and time in the bottom right hand corner gave me a comforting sense of normality - but the internet is gone. No TV, no radio, no way to find out if the human race has even managed to survive, beyond Veronica and me.

Veronica is beautiful. I've always thought so. Even now, although she's pale and scared and thin from lack of food, the features that first drew me to her - her face, her hair, her eyes - still seem as lovely as ever. I've never told her how I feel, of course. She wouldn't understand. But now - now that everything is different, maybe it won't matter any more. Maybe this is my last chance.

Slowly, I walk from my room to hers. I can feel myself getting weaker. Eventually we're going to have to risk the toxicity in the atmosphere to go and look for food - but not yet.

Veronica is lying so still that I think she might be dead, and my breath catches in my throat. Then she whimpers in her sleep, and rolls over. Relieved, I sit down on the bed beside her. I place my hand on her arm. "Veronica," I say, quietly.

Veronica's eyes flick open. "What's wrong, Marie?" She asks, her voice struggling to get above a whisper. Veronica always used to be loud and bolshy, talking constantly and making jokes. She's different now. I haven't heard her laugh since all of this began.

"Nothing's wrong," I say. "Well, nothing more than the usual. I just wanted to talk, that's all."

With great effort, Veronica hauls herself up into a sitting position, and looks me in the eyes. "You sound serious," she says. "Are you sure nothing's up? You sound like you've come to tell me you're dying."

I always knew that this conversation, if it ever happened, would be difficult. Up until a month ago, however, I hadn't imagined we'd be having the conversation all alone in a post-apocalyptic world.

"It's not that, I promise. It's just that I've got something to say, and it's not easy for me - I've actually been wanting to tell you since, well, before."

Veronica doesn't respond this time. Her eyes are half closed, but I know she's still listening to me intently.

"I wanted to tell you I love you," I say, deciding to get it over with. "As, um more than friends."

Veronica still doesn't respond, but there's no turning back now, so I continue to babble.

"And um, as we're the only ones left, maybe, I thought, well, it doesn't matter what people think any more, right? We could be together. Just until, you know - until we're not."

My jumbled sentence pours out of me like vomit, and when I've said it, I feel ashamed and stupid. I look at the floor, and wait to hear what she'll say, if she says anything at all.

"I don't feel the same way," She says.

Her voice is too weak for any emotion, so I can't tell if she's sad, or angry, or sorry. But that doesn't really matter. Tears prick my eyes. I nod, and get up off the bed.

"Sorry to disturb you, love. You can go back to sleep now."

The world is ending, and yet somehow that doesn't matter any more. The sense of rejection fills me so completely that it doesn't leave room for anything else. I lie face down on the living room sofa, and I have just about enough energy to weep.

Things are different now. But some things will never change.