The alarm clock on my bedside shrieks. My fist crashes down on the device and it breaks with a defeated sizzle.

I sigh, sinking further into the soft bedsheets. My hand massages my throbbing head.

I sit up, wincing. My fingers reach for the bandages around my torso. A dark spot stains the rough fabric and pain radiates from my stomach.

I throw the velvet covers off my body and slide carefully out of bed. I pull fresh clothes out of the mahogany wardrobe; a dark cotton shirt and navy jeans, and get dressed. The clothes don’t quite fit; I have to adjust the jeans’ waistband while the sleeves of the shirt swallow my wrists.

I stare at the room with exhausted eyes. The massive bed with velvet covers and feather-stuffed pillows clad in silk cases; the parquet floors; the crystal chandelier; the arched window and the howling wind beyond its shattered glass.

Anyone else would count their blessings, brimming with relief that they found an unlocked, abandoned apartment in the middle of the ruined city they were not able to escape. But not me. This was just temporary. I will keep moving in two days, I just need a moment of respite. But I will keep going, keep looking. For her.

I sigh.

I head for the stairs and my head spins as my vision abruptly blurs. My hand grabs the banister and I slump against the wall. Pain shoots through my body like a poisoned arrow. Clutching the railing, I limp down the stairs to the dining room.

Tripping and stumbling, I make my way towards the small wooden cabinet behind the long dining table and with aching fingers pry open its doors.

A rainbow of flourescent bottles greets me and I pull out the one nearest to me. I pop out the cork and gulp down half of its contents.

The alcohol burns my throat and fills my chest with a warm, sickly feeling, one that I have grown quite accustomed to. The claws of tension and agony gripping my body release their grasp and my mind floats away from reality into a blurred, dreamlike trance.

The apartment swims together into a kaleidoscope of muted colours, as I clamber heavily up the stairs, bottle in hand, to the roof of the building.

As soon as I reach the roof, the wind whips my hair into a whirlwind of brown. The acrid stink of faraway smoke permeates the air. I stare out across the once-great city, now reduced to smoking ruins.

Looking out at this broken land, I remember the tall skyscrapers that used to dominate the land, the beautiful parks that housed tranquility in the bustling city’s heart, the joyful people that used to live here. What happened to the owners of this apartment? Did they survive the massacre? Did they manage to get away?

Many were killed during the bombings. Those who remained fled. But not me. I stayed. I stayed for her.

She said she would come back. But then the missiles began to rain like a hellish storm. I didn’t see her after that.

I should’ve run, fast and far, like the others, but there is nothing for me outside of the city ruins, nothing that beckons me to leave. Instead, I have the most pressing reason to stay.

I take another gulp of liquor from the bottle in my hand, emptying it, and perch on the edge of the rooftop.

I look down, past my dangling legs, at the ground seventeen stories below. I wonder if that will be enough.

My eyes take a long look around the city, drinking in every last memory. From the buildings to the parks to the people, I miss it all.

But suddenly, I see a silhouette a few buildings away. My eyes widen in shock. A person. I squint at the figure. A woman, I confirm, moving awkwardly as though injured, short black hair matted and dirty and a small round face, jaw clenched in determination and-

The bottle drops from my hand, smashing on the ground far below, as a gasp tears from my throat.

Impetuously, I pull myself up, even though my wound screeches with agony, and gaze in consternation at the face I thought I would never see again.

Her name slips out of my mouth, a prayer, wisked away by the wailing wind.

“Lucy?”