Mya

I've never seen the Statue of Liberty.

The huge, green symbol of peace and friendship shines her light down on the sleeping ruins on New York City, not even a hundred miles from here.

I've never even seen pictures of her.

Yet, I've heard about her. My brother and I listen to podcasts about all kinds of topics- math, science, and history. The faceless voices serve as our teachers, and more than one has mentioned the statue.

So, even if I've never seen her, she has to be real.

Just because you can't see something doesn't mean it ceases to exist.

I believe in many invisible things- ghosts, Bigfoot, unicorns.

Mainly, though, I believe in myself- the girl hidden within the pale blue walls of this six room, two story building under the unnerving fluorescent lights. I'm the girl no one has ever seen.

But I exist.

Don't I?

I wonder sometimes.

Somewhere nearby, a horn blares. The sound reminds me of an alarm clock, echoing throughout our home at exactly seven o'clock every morning. It's high pitched, blending major piano keys with saxophone shrills.

The digital clock projected on the wall blinks red, strobing until I throw my feet off the side of the bed and lay them on the marble floor. I recoil at the touch, shivering.

Every morning, it's the same.

Wake up before the alarm, write in my diary, turn off the blinding clock, and then, wake up Finn.

It's not everyday, though, that he's sleeping on his stomach, head turned away from me, burritoed in his blanket.

I tiptoe over to his bed, holding my hands out like claws in front of me.

Finn sleeps like an anchor. A tornado tearing through the room couldn't wake him up, unless something hit him. That's what wakes him up.

Touch.

When I'm looming over him, looking at his angelic face, I smile.

"Finn! We're under attack!" I scream, jumping on him, hands diving for his ribcage. "President Ashford is coming for us! He's gonna kill us! Finn, help me!"

His body bucks under me, fists flying as he attempts to unroll himself from the paper thin blankets. His eyes go wide; eyebrows shoot up. Panic is written in the gaping mouth and frenzied hands that jerk my arms away from him.

Fear melts into annoyance, and his wide eyes narrow into slits.

"Mya. Jesus."

He growls the words, pushing me off him in one swift movement. I land on the marble, rolling away, laughing wildly.

"You know how much I hate being scared," he mumbles, throwing the covers back.

"Don't sleep on your stomach, then," I say, "It makes it too hard to resist."

"Or you could grow up."

"Or you could get a sense of humor."

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair until it stands up on end, giving him an extra six inches of height.

"What time is it?" he asks, but his voice wavers between pitches. Puberty.

"Seven."

I push myself up off the floor.

Our bedroom's one of the smallest rooms in the house. The two, twin-sized beds line opposite walls, facing the only door. We have a small closet, lined with the same gray pants and t-shirts. When we were younger, it used to all be one long row, due to the fact that we could fit into the same sized clothes. It was one of the benefits of being twins.

Finn's taller than me, now, though, and I'm much thinner.

So, there's two rows. One neatly organized row with pants in the front, followed by shirts, ending with sweaters, and one heaping mess of Finn's creation.

"Throw me a shirt," Finn calls over from where he stands in front of the mirror.

Using two fingers, I pull one of the lumps of fabric from his rack, assuming it's a shirt and toss it over to him.

"Aren't we getting a little too old to be changing in front of one another?" I ask, taking my own outfit to the bed.

"What do you have that I haven't seen before?" he asks, kicking his pants off and flinging them across the room.

"Boobs," I mutter, turning around as he finishes stripping down.

"Mya, you don't actually have those."

I pull the shirt over my head, glaring at him over my shoulder.

"How would you know? Have you ever seen a woman's breasts?"

His eyebrows shoot up, and he smirks.

"No, I haven't, because you don't have any."

I lunge across the room at him, smacking at his bare chest. He erupts into laughter, pushing me away with one hand on each shoulder.

Every day is the same.

We follow the schedule loosely, except on Mondays. Thankfully, though, it's not Monday. Monday is a different monster altogether.

Posted on the door, framed in a heavy black picture frame, is our schedule. It's handwritten, scribbled on lined white paper.

7:00 Morning Alarm

8:00 Breakfast

9:00 Morning Lessons

12:00 Lunch

1:00 Physical Activity Time

2:00 Afternoon Lessons

5:00 Free Time

7:00 Vitals Check

8:00 Prepare for Bed

9:00 Lights Out

Some mornings, it takes us a little longer to get up. On Finn's day to cook breakfast, it takes him thirty minutes, leaving us with less time to eat.

Mom never scolds us for being off schedule, thankfully. It's like she understands how hard it is for two fifteen year old to take care of themselves. Like we haven't been doing it since she moved out and left us out here alone.

"It's your morning," I remind Finn, plopping down at the kitchen table.

"Cereal it is," he mumbles, opening the fridge and setting the pitcher of milk down on the counter. I roll my eyes, fetching myself a bowl.

It wasn't always like this, living from day to day in a never ending spin cycle of schedules, vital checks, experiments, and lessons. At one point in our lives, we were residents of Compound 1. Not that we remember it. Finn and I were just infants when President Ashford relocated us into this house, isolating us from the rest of the world.

Why us?

Well, because Finn and I are immune from the Virus, a disease that twists the human mind into something animalistic, making the victim hunt and kill other human beings to survive. Fifteen years ago, on the year we were born, the Virus destroyed the world, forcing humanity to bound together and build what we know as compounds, protected by twenty foot steel walls.

Mom didn't know we were immune until the wall of Compound 1 was breached, allowing a wave of infected to attack. The infected grazed on the outskirts of the city, moving inward, seemingly invincible. President Ashford sent troops to destroy them, but not before they found my home.

Mom was at work at the time.

The infected ate our babysitter quicker than Finn can scarf down a bowl of cereal and thought we looked like dessert.

Finn still has scars weaving down his back, stretched over the years, silk ribbons of skin where the infected clawed him up. My scars line my legs.

They remind us that we aren't invincible. Just immune.

"Hey, zombie Mya."

Finn's hand waving in front of my face brings me back to attention, and I finish my breakfast my tilting the bowl back and drinking the milk inside.

"What?" I ask, letting out a little sigh as I put the bowl back down.

"Do you wanna study outside today?"

I smile, nodding.

We aren't supposed to go outside. It's one of the rules. Yet, Mom won't be here until tonight, and no one else watches over us during the day. So, I gather our tablets and headphones, meeting Finn by the backdoor.

"Ready?" he asks, one hand of the door handle.

"Let's do this."

With a toothy grin that lifts the corners of his eyes up, he turns the handle, bathing the both of us in warm sunlight.