My bedroom is cold. Brick walls whitewashed and then - for some reason - wallpaper (mouldy). My floor looks kind of like a sunset, green and blue, it’s really rather beautiful just– you need to forget that it’s meant to be dark brown wood. Hey, I think to myself “at lest I have a working bed.” I lie down heavily and it rocks. I don’t really care though?
At least I’m away.
I didn't want to go, but, I have gone, left home forever.
The city full of people, the buildings up to the sky, the real world, is gone now, because even if I were to go back to London, soon all there’s left of it will be maybe a couple of bricks and the front door of number 10.
All those still in England are trapped there now its started, they’ll be dead within the month.
Welcome, to the worst war in history, the biggest most terrible thing to happen to humanity, yet somehow– the shortest for us?
Welcome, reader, to World War III.
The sky rises to the stars, scattered with birds and glistening clouds falling from pastel blue in an ombre to soft turquoise, the colours grow stronger as they float past the setting sun and hit a silhouetted forest of leafless trees. Farmland stretches as far as the eye can see in all directions but one where it’s ubbruptly cut off by the roaring traffic, filled with people also trying to escape, in which I sit now; in the back of a car with my...