My parents were dead by the time I woke up.
Green slime crept up the walls. The only reason I knew the shapeless, pulsing mass on the bed had once been my parents was the ring on a half-dissolved finger. I couldn't even tell whose it was. The rest was an oozing, orange blob, spilling over the mattress toward me.
My breath hitched. I spun on my heel and dashed out the door.
The slime wasn't fast, but it didn't have to be. No one could fight it. It had taken over while we slept. The smell burned my nose, thick and acrid, like rotting fruit and metal. Through the wooden walls, I could hear the wet, sucking sounds of it spreading, digesting. More tendrils slithered through cracks, brushing against my arms as I ran past.
Something warm and sticky dripped onto my forehead. I looked up. The ceiling was almost gone, save for a few blackened beams. The slime was everywhere, crawling along the supports, dripping onto the walls and floor.
The floorboards, once sturdy and creaking, sagged under my feet. Then, a scream cut through the air outside.
I lost focus for just a second—just enough time for my foot to break through the softened wood. I plunged ankle-deep into the slime. It burned. I yelped, wrenching my leg free, frantically scraping it off my skin.
I stumbled through the front door—and into chaos.
The red morning sun bled over the city, illuminating the destruction. A mother carried her slimy child, screaming for help. People ran, wild and desperate, their limbs half-melted.
And then there were the creatures.
Massive, warty trolls—twice as tall as the houses—lumbered through the streets, snatching up survivors. I didn't look up. I didn't want to. The sound alone was enough—the crack of bones, the wet slap of bodies hitting the slime-covered ground.
I turned back to my house. The wood was already breaking apart, dissolving as the slime burrowed through it. In a few hours, maybe even less, it would be nothing but a pile of ooze.
My entire life—gone in a night.
All my drawings.
The games I played with the neighbors' kids.
The mornings we spent praying and eating together.
All of it… gone.
Something broke in me. I ran.
Past the pavements. Past the giant spiders sinking their fangs into screaming people. Past the ogres stomping houses into splinters, swinging uprooted trees like clubs. Past the wild boars, their tusks slick with blood, goring anyone who got too close.
Above me, a storm of black crows circled—dozens, maybe hundreds—diving down to peck at the dead, tearing away scraps of flesh left behind by the bigger monsters.
I didn't stop. I didn't look back.
The kingdom's gates were half-dissolved, twisted into something unrecognizable, but I didn't care. I pushed through, sprinting into the forest beyond, willing myself to forget what I was leaving behind.
I ran until my legs burned. Until my lungs felt like fire. Until the world blurred at the edges.
It wasn't until my foot caught on a root and I stumbled forward that I realized—I wasn't wearing shoes.
Pain lanced up my legs as I tore through the undergrowth. Thorns bit into my skin. Brambles lashed at me like clawed fingers. The forest floor was cruel—hidden stones, twisting roots, everything conspiring to slow me down. But I couldn't stop. Not yet.
Then hunger hit me.
A bush dotted with purple berries caught my eye, their skins glinting in the weak sunlight filtering through the trees. I hesitated. I didn't know if they were safe. But my stomach clenched, aching, and before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed a handful.
They were bitter. My throat protested, but I forced them down.
Leaning against a tree, I let my body sink to the ground. My breath came in ragged gasps, and my arms trembled from exhaustion.
And then it hit me.
My house. My parents. The neighbors. The gates.
Gone.
A lump rose in my throat, thick and suffocating. My chest heaved. My vision blurred.
"I'm all alone," I whispered.
The forest didn't answer.
Silence pressed down on me, heavy as a tomb. And I cried. And cried. And cried.