Elizabeth Waller

The Locket

The early morning light filtered in through the cracked bedroom window illuminating the dusty space. Rebecca knew darkness, so the scant light was no issue for her. Slipping out from under the oversized flannel she’d poached from some trendy vintage shop weeks before, Rebecca rose from the bed and padded towards the window. Outside the sky was a sharp sketch of pale yellow light against a dark grey skyline. The city had never looked this menacing, this stoic before; something about the lack of people made the city feel more like a morgue than the streets she was used to running. The city was empty. Rebecca knew that. When the lights went out and the world stopped, everyone ran. Panicked. Families fled their homes, looters ransacked shops and apartments, and violence surged. The pandemic had made people scared of going outside, of being a part of society, a reality that had made it harder for Rebecca to live the way she needed to. What good is being a pickpocket with no crowd to pick, or a con artist with no naïve tourist to scam? This was different though; the pandemic had made a hard life harder, but now, with the threat of death lurking in the eyes of every stranger, violence in every shadow, with everyone willing to do anything to survive, now Rebecca was scared.