Even in the basement I can hear the cracks of thunder. Each crack is accompanied by questions like "Why did I survive?" and "When will it end?" and "What if will I do when it does end?" That last question scares me the most because it tends to bring more questions, such as "What if I'm the only survivor?", "What if it never ends?", "What will I find out there?", and, finally, a question that's really an option: "Maybe I should just kill myself?"

I'm seriously considering this, but how would I kill myself? I press the button on my flashlight and with I can see what's in the basement. No guns, no ropes, just food, blankets-- A wrench. No, at most I'd only knock myself out.

Silence. Is it over? I don't know what to do. The logical part of me does; I let it take over. I stand up, my muscles ache (how long had I been waiting?) and my throat is dry. I walk to stretch my legs and get a bottle of water. As I drink, I close my eyes -- I don't want to see the dirty basement. Smoke from outside that crept through the cracks curls like hair around fingers and dirt shaken loose from the ceiling coats the floor.

My throat doesn't itch anymore, but I still can't quite walk straight: I stumble to the basement door.

I scream and fall away, almost fall on my backside, grip the door frame. The rest of my house is gone, as if it never existed. And beyond my house... I don't understand... How could the storm have done this? Maybe I'm asleep, having a nightmare, or hallucinating. I probably fell asleep on the couch and I'll wake up any second, the TV still blaring, my siblings still fighting.

I never thought I'd want to hear the sound of their fighting but right now I'd give anything for that. I spin around. I hear them! I'm sure of it. They're hiding, have to be. "Johnny?" my voice croaks. "Jamie?" My nose stings as tears climb.

Their six-year-old bodies don't coming running from the corners of the basements. I call again. Their six-year-old voices don't shout out from the corners of the basement. I try one last time. Their six-year-old lips don't smile with joy as they emerge from the corners of the basement.

They're gone.

I turn back to face the barren neighborhood and my future. A tree , the last one standing. The storm stops and it rains, as though to cleanse the world. I don't see how it can. The rain falls hard, and dead straight, no wind to throw it off-course. I step forward, spread my arms, close my eyes. The world tumbles away, mere tumbleweed, and is replaced by the raindrops that drench my skin to the bone, chill my insides, prevent destructive rage.

I know this peace is called denial, but I also know it's essential to my survival.

I do not know where I will go, but I can only hope I will meet more survivors, that I am not alone. The rain ends, the clouds part and the sun glimmers with hope I only half-trust.