Sophie leans into Lizzy’s arms, physically and emotionally exhausted. She taps into Lizzy’s warmth, realising how cold she had got sitting on the concrete floor, and how stiff she felt. She feels Lizzy’s lips smile into her neck. Sophie leans back into Lizzy’s arms, searching their face for a glimpse of what she thought she saw, but all she sees are Lizzy’s sweet, tired eyes and their beloved face. It must have been a dream.

“So, what did my beloved hunter-gather bring home?” Sophie asks. She wonders whether she sees Lizzy flinch at the word ‘hunter’, but she shakes the thought away. Lizzy smiles.

It’s about 7:15 pm. Lizzy should be back any moment. Sophie waits, patiently panicking under the few ratty blankets she could find, still not sure if she is feeling too hot or too cold. The power has been out for days at this point and the makeshift fireplace in the corner of the vacant warehouse gasps for life. The blue, white, and yellow ambulance lights from outside distribute harsh, makeshift fairy lights against the large window to Sophie’s right. Candlelight flickers, casting her ill-proportioned shadow across the towering white walls. She’s been sitting on the hard, concrete floor, quietly reading the same sentence in her book for the past couple of hours, occasionally looking up in response to her heightened senses- the leaves rustling on tree branches outside, the slight ring of the bell on a cat’s collar as it scratches its ear, the faint dripping of water from the leaking faucet in the bathroom. Lizzie left to search for cans of food in a local shop some time ago. Lizzie should be home by now. 

CW: mention of blood

Sophie’s whole body shuddered with a force she’d never felt before. Clutching the roots of her hair with her cracked and bloodied fingers- Sophie ran frantically towards the Gallerybehind Lizzy, nauseous and confused. Before stumbling up the steps, Sophie turned to face the grey glint of an apocalyptic sun. She sighed, raspy, as her view of the woman she couldn’t save disappeared behind a shroud of low-lying fog, also obscuring her view of it. Sophie fixated on it’s striking red eyes and a scaly, devilish grin that made the hair on her arm stand to fearful attention, like wispy soldiers blowing in the freezing breeze. Those claws. Claws ready to tear flesh at any given moment. 

CW: blood, wound.

Lizzy wishes she could’ve stayed there forever with Sophie. The thought of the apocalypse was far in the back of their mind. The harsh realities of the seemingly empty, still world outside becoming a distant memory. Hours seemed to pass for the both of them as they stared intently at the painting, Lizzy tightening her arms around their girlfriend. Unfortunately, something dragged the two out of their dream, or rather someone. They heard screaming coming from outside the gallery doors, a cry of pain, a cry for help.  Sophie immediately shot up, pulling herself from the warmth of Lizzy’s shoulder and instinctively grabbing their hand, before dragging them both to the front doors of the gallery. 

Edinburgh in the snow is like a fairy-tale. This is the thought that sits in the forefront of Lizzy’s mind as they lets their gaze travel the length of Princes Street below them. Their little venture had been Sophie’s idea, to just get out for a walk, apocalypse be damned. 

Sophie would wonder later, whenever she tried to reflect on what they’d both seen that day, why she hadn’t felt more shell-shocked. People would swap horror stories with a bizarre air of pride, conjuring images of falling to their knees, falling on the floor, elderly parents seizing their arm in unadulterated terror. Overall, the kind of trauma a therapist would have a field day with, if the concept of therapy hadn’t been rendered pretty much impossible. But Sophie had only been conscious of a feeling of pure dread, seeping its way into her bones.

The day the sky fell, Sophie’s kettle had broken. It had made a valiant attempt to survive, but they knew it’s time had come with one unwilling scree that morning. Now, her morning cup of tea was ever so slowly heating, mournfully, in the microwave. 

The kettle had lasted them a fair few years; once Lizzy and her had got their own place, it was completely up to them to scavenge for things to fill it. Cutlery and plates from a friend, a couple of red armchairs from a suspicious Gumtree advert; their entire home was basically a jumble sale. Lizzy liked to tease Sophie about the mismatched strips of carpet, the tile samples they used as coasters, the curtains that were repurposed from some drab smock from the seventiesthey’d found at a charity shop. But Sophie didn’t mind. It was their place.