It all started on a crisp October morning. My converse slapped the pavement as I hurried down the sidewalk, wisps of my copper colored hair slipping out of my once-perfect ponytail. I turned the corner, to see crowds of students filtering into the school. All at once everything fell silent. The sound tore through the school, leaving chaos in its wake.  The single earsplitting scream that changed everything. It penetrated my eardrums; pulsing through every inch of my skull. My muscles went limp, and my throat was suddenly dry.  My hands instinctively clutched the side of my head, the tips of my nails puncturing my caramel skin.

Even as other students collapsed around me, I faltered towards the sound. Silence settled over the school, and my headache reduced to a dull thud. My vision blurred, and each step begged me to fall. I stared down at my spotless white shoelaces as the rough concrete merged into cushiony blades of grass. I took a shaky breath, trying to remind myself to breathe. I continued to stumble forward, passing students who had fainted only a few moments before. A circle of bodies lied peacefully in the dew covered grass, surrounding a little blonde girl. She was different. Her chest didn’t rise and fall like the others. Her faded blue eyes were glazed over with a glassy film, her once pale skin now the same color as her distant eyes. Her lips were slightly parted, a trail of blood running down the length of her chin. A lump formed in the base of my throat, my bottom lip quivered, and a single tear slipped down my cheek.

It swept across the country in a matter of weeks. That innocent 10 year-old was the first. The first out of millions to die. There are only a fraction of others like me, immune to the virus that claimed 98% of America’s children. There aren’t many of us left anymore, and although the disease isn’t a threat, we’ll never be safe.