Finding Darkness

Episode 1

I feel like I’m living a life that isn't my own, a hollow echo of someone else's expectations. I am not even my own person; I am only who I was told to be. So many had expectations of me, and I molded myself into a different person just to meet them. In truth, I don’t even know who I am or where I came from. The one undeniable truth is that, at this moment, I am Wilhemina Frost, or just Mina. It’s the only name I've truly chosen, the only identity I cling to.

I strive for an unassuming life and look, a deliberate attempt to blend into the shadows. At twenty-seven, my long, shaggy brown hair is usually yanked into a practical ponytail or a messy bun, often escaping in wisps around my face. I’m of average height, maybe 5'6", with hazel eyes that I've learned to keep neutral, unreadable. People might call me thick, but it’s a deceptive build—lean muscle honed by years of surviving on the move, not softness. There’s nothing particularly special about me, except perhaps for the intricate web of scars that crisscross my torso, a roadmap of a past I rarely acknowledge. Each one tells a story, though I pray none of them are legible to anyone but me.

I am also the mother of a beautiful six-year-old girl, Elpis. I know, it’s an extraordinarily unique name, one that often draws curious stares, but I couldn’t imagine calling her anything else. Elpis, the personification of hope—or in some translations, expectations. Are the two so different? Expectations of both good and evil, yet I believe it truly means hope. In one of many Greek myths, Elpis was the solitary entity that remained in Pandora’s box when she unleashed all the world's evils. I never wanted to believe in hope, never allowed myself to feel it, but the moment I looked into her wide, innocent eyes when she was born, I am suddenly, irrevocably filled with it. She is my hope—hope for a new beginning, for a new life. She was, and still is, my salvation, the anchor that keeps me grounded.

Elpis is a quiet girl, not one for many words. Her silence isn't due to shyness, but a deep, observant nature. When she was younger, doctors and even well-meaning neighbors fretted, suggesting "something was wrong" because of her lack of verbal communication. But she communicates in her own way—with a gentle squeeze of my hand, a silent, knowing look, a subtle lean into my side. That’s all that matters. In almost every way, she looks just like me, from the same shade of brown hair to the determined set of her jaw, except for her bright, almost startling blue eyes. Those, she inherited from her father—a father she’ll never know, for he died before she was born. I see a flicker of him in those eyes sometimes, a sharp pang in my chest.

The life we once knew in a small, quaint town no longer exists. That quiet, safe existence feels like a faded photograph now. The life we live now is rough, fraught with fear, a constant, grinding fight for survival. Welcome to the new, so-called Free America. Many call it the Land of the Lost now, a desolate wasteland governed by fear. A couple of years ago, a tyrannical man seized power, his rise to control swift and brutal. That’s when his reign of hell truly begins. He declares himself the sole ruler over everyone and everything, dismantling our government with ruthless efficiency and replacing it with his own twisted vision of order. Of course, he has outside help—many are waiting for an opportunity like this, opportunists who jump at it with terrifying, bloodthirsty eagerness. That "help" ends with countless dead, the streets running red, and countless more fearing for their very lives.

Luckily for us, I possess certain skills that keep us alive. Skills forged in a past I rarely speak of, skills that feel like both a blessing and a curse. I'm traveling with my daughter and my adopted mother, Leda. She’s not just a mother figure; she’s my rock, my co-conspirator in survival. Leda took me in when my parents died, when I was ten, a scared, lost child. Now, at fifty-something, Leda is a petite woman, barely reaching my shoulder, her frame wiry but deceptively strong. She can kick the ass of a man twice her size without breaking a sweat, her movements surprisingly fluid and lethal. Her face, though, carries the deep, etched lines of a hard life, particularly around her tired, wise eyes. She never speaks of her youth, of what she did or where she came from before me, and I’ve learned not to ask. We've all had it rough lately. The guilt gnaws at me that I never imagined my daughter would endure such a life, yet here we are, just trying to survive another day, another hour.

We’re currently pushing through what used to be West Texas. The land here is unforgiving, dust-choked and desolate. I don’t know what they call it now, or if it even has a name. References for areas change constantly, depending on who controls the territory—the "New Commonwealth," "The Governor's Reach," "The Free Zone." Our destination is a secret military compound, hidden deep in the Rocky Mountains. A ghost of a whisper, a last hope. I can only pray it’s still there; I'm relying on fragmented memories and old, faded maps to guide us. My only goal is to get us there safely, to finally have a moment to breathe easy, free from the constant dread of who we might encounter around the next bend.

This situation, this desperate flight, began when coordinated bombings ripped across the country. They are strategic, methodical—a meticulously planned attack that feels like surgery, precise and deadly. Our small town is initially spared, a pocket of false safety, but hell eventually catches up to us. The New World Enforcement, or NWE, finally arrives, asserting absolute, brutal control. They do whatever they want, their faces blank of empathy, instilling terror by beating or executing people for no reason other than to showcase their absolute power. We live under their tyranny for months, a slow, agonizing suffocation, until I finally have enough. My breaking point comes after one particular incident.

I am walking home from the store, my arms laden with meager supplies, when two NWE soldiers, reeking of stale sweat and entitlement, approach me. They have the "brilliant" idea to have their way with me, their eyes stripping me bare. But years of suppressing instincts, of pretending to be unremarkable, vanish in a rush of cold fury. I move before they can react, knocking them both unconscious with a speed that startles even me. I rush home, my heart hammering, pack everyone, and we slip out into the pre-dawn darkness that very night, never looking back.

So here we are, a year later. A year of constant movement, of dust and fear. We’ve been moving as fast as we can, a relentless, punishing pace. Even though I carry Elpis most of the time, her small weight is a comforting pressure, it’s been a brutal challenge. Not Elpis herself, she’s so resilient, but trying to navigate this searing heat, this parched landscape, and protect her from it. It’s only gotten hotter as the weeks drag on, so we've switched to traveling at night, seeking the minimal cool of the moon. Finding shelter has also become increasingly difficult, every abandoned building picked clean. To top everything off, we’re critically low on water. My lips are cracked, my throat raw. I haven't had any water all day, and I'm starting to feel the dizzying effects, but I will endure. I will endure to ensure there's enough for Elpis, even if it means my own body gives out.

"We need to find water soon," my mother whispers, her voice raspy, barely audible over the crunch of our boots on the dry earth. Her hand, gnarled and strong, tightens on my arm.

"I know," I reply, my own throat burning with thirst.

It's been two agonizing weeks since we found any real water, not just a few drops in a forgotten puddle. If we don't find more soon, we'll be in serious trouble, especially with this infernal, oppressive heat that drains the very life from everything. We manage to find some meager cover beneath a large, sprawling oak tree, its leaves already curling from the sun. I pull out the tattered map, its creases worn, trying to pinpoint our exact, desperate location and our next move.

"I think we're somewhere around here." I point to a smudged spot on the map, my finger tracing a faint line. "There looks like a town about a mile west of us."

"Looks like we found where we're going next," Leda says, a flicker of something—hope, weariness?—in her tired eyes. She pulls a piece of jerky from her pack, offering it to Elpis, who takes a small bite, her eyes wide and watchful.

"I just hope it hasn't been occupied by the other side, or we’ll have a hard time finding anything," I murmur, my gaze falling to Elpis's innocent, peaceful sleeping face. She breathes so softly, trustingly. She is innocent, she shouldn't be living like this. This nightmare is mine, not hers.

You know what you need to do to give her better.

She’s in my head again. The voice that never leaves me alone—she's been more persistent lately, a constant hum beneath my thoughts. She wants out of her cage, wants to claw her way to the surface, and I refuse to let her. Not now. Not ever.

As soon as night falls, painting the sky in deep purples and blues, we begin our trek to the town. It’s small, its buildings hunched and dark against the horizon. Thankfully, it looks like it hasn’t been occupied or ransacked in a while; the silence is too deep, the air too still. That means we should be able to find provisions. My stomach growls, a hollow ache.

I gently set Elpis down at the edge of the tree line, her small hand immediately finding Leda's. "You two stay hidden in the tree line over there. Keep absolutely still. I'll go stock up on what I can."

"We can all go," Leda says, her voice low but firm, a hand already going to the worn knife at her belt.

I give her a sharp, impatient look, my eyes narrowing in the moonlight. "You, of all people, know that's a bad idea. I’m faster, lighter, and it’s easier for me to get around unnoticed. I can handle this myself." My tone leaves no room for argument. I need her to stay safe with Elpis. They are my only vulnerability.

Leaving them, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach, I make my way toward the town. It's dark, but a full moon, a luminous orb in the sky, casts a surprising amount of light—I'd prefer no moon for better, deeper cover, for true invisibility. I navigate through the quiet, deserted streets, my senses on high alert, every shadow a potential threat.