16 Years

DISCLAIMER!!! I am not Anit-Muslim, I only said the following because I wanted to base the war off of religion. Again, I am not Anti-Muslim. This is just a work of fiction.

I wake up to the sound of my alarm clock, telling me it's seven a.m. I shut off the alarm, sit up and rub my eyes. I stretch my arms and yawn, then look around my traditional Japanese-themed room.

Each one of my walls features a Shinto shrine in the middle of a pond/lake surrounded by cherry blossoms on the shore. There is a bridge that connects the small island where the shrine is to the shore. In each of the four corners of my room is an artificial cherry blossom tree that I spray with the flower's scent from time to time. Even my bed frame, flooring, and doors to my closet and to the hall are made of the tree's wood.

I get up from the bed and start to make it. Finishing up, I prop my pillow on the headboard and place my Hello Kitty plushie in front of the pillow. She wears a kimono. I roll out my light cornflower blue yoga mat on the floor and do some poses for about ten minutes. When I'm done, I roll out the mat and place it back into my closet.

I open the door that leads to the hallway, taking one last look around my room. I go out and close the door behind me. Walking down the hall, I look at the painting on the steel and concrete walls. There are pictures, too, but they're from when my mom and dad didn't have me and my sister, which meant it was before the war. In some of the photos, our mother's stomach was plump and round, filled with a pair of black and white twins that was me and Xenia.

At this point, the hall opens into the kitchen and the aroma of maple bacon drifts into my nose. I go inside, find that my mother is the one cooking, and sit down on the stool of the kitchen island.

She catches a glance at me and smiles, grabbing a plate from the cupboard. "Good morning, Valentina," she says sweetly, loading the bacon on the plate. "Can you put this on the table for me?" She hands the dish to me.

"Sure," I reply, taking it from her. I walk over to the small, round table we eat all of our meals at and set the plate next to the pancakes and scrambled eggs. I go over to the fridge and get the pitcher of water. I bring it over to the counter and Mom gives me the jar of passion fruit juice powder.

My family loves to drink juice during breakfast time, and when we do, we usually have apple, orange, or passion fruit. We especially love passion fruit, particularly because of our ethnic background, but also because of the tangy-sweet flavor.

My mother is purely Puerto Rican while my dad is black. My sister, Xenia, came out like our mother: golden blonde hair, light olive skin, an oval-shaped face. The only difference was the eyes, Xenia having playful, milk chocolate brown while Mom has green like the color of pine. I have Mom's eyes, but the rest of me is like my father: chocolate brown skin, dark brown-almost-black natural hair, and a face shape a bit more round than Xenia and Mom's.

Snapping back into reality, I pour about a quarter cup of the powder into the pitcher and stir it with a wooden spoon. I hear laughing behind me, so I grab four glasses from the cupboard and bring them to the table along with the juice. I give everyone a glass, including myself, pour the juice into each, and set the pitcher in the middle of the table. Then I take my place, and we eat breakfast together as a family.

* * *

Even though school ended about fifteen minutes ago, I'm walking down the hallway to the library. I pass by the gymnasium and see my sister playing basketball, our family's favorite sport, with our dad. They give me a good-natured wave, and I do the same thing to them.

Honestly, today has been kind of lousy. I mean, when you've spent your whole life in a bunker half a mile beneath the Earth's surface, you kind of get used to it, but the only kind of. When our parents talk about the "good old days" before the war started sixteen years ago, it made me feel lonely, made me want to go outside. I'm sure it felt the same way for my sister, too. Out of the two of us, not one has breathed in real air, felt green grass, or even listened to real ocean waves. We've never met a boy around our age or even had friends. And all because WWIV started and destroyed our life before we even got to live it.

Our mother told us that the reason it started was that the Muslims in EurAsia wanted to take over the world and make Islam the only religion. Eventually, they started attacking the places with the most resistance (with nuclear missiles, mind you), and here we are now.

That's why we're here. Dad told us that nuclear radiation lasts for about fifteen years, but we stayed an extra year to be safe. Every single day has been the same thing over, and over, and over again. For twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days a year. It has been the same pattern again and again: wake up, do bed, do yoga, clean self, eat/make breakfast, school, lunch, school again, rest for fifteen minutes, study Korean in the library. The only indication of holidays comes from our father, which is the only time our routine changes.

I enter the library and check the watch on my wrist. It's only three, so I have about two hours before I have to make dinner. I sit down at the table in the far left corner, where I usually sit. My laptop, textbook, and notebook are already there, so all I have to is open my textbook and laptop, key in the password, and boom! there's my language studying site.

For two hours, I study Korean. When my watch says 5:07 PM, I close my notebook and textbook, then shut down my laptop. I leap up from where I sat and push the chair in, then walk out of the library, to the hall, and down into the kitchen.

When I get there, I go straight to the pantry to get a box of ramen noodles. I take a pot from the cupboard and fill it about three-quarters of the way with water. I bring it to a boil on the back burner of the stove and season the water with salt. Then I add the full box of ramen noodles.

I go over to the fridge and get some green onions, tofu cubes, cilantro, and some eggs. I put those on the counter, then go over to the pantry again. I grab sesame oil, soy sauce, canned peas, carrots, and green beans, a container of chicken broth, a jar of chicken bouillon, and a family-sized MRE of sticky rice.

I get another pot from the cupboard and place it on the burner in front of the noodles. Turning it on medium-low, I pour the chicken broth and bring it to a simmer. Next, I drain the canned vegetables and place them in the broth. I crack the eggs into a small bowl, whisk it slightly, then pluck them in the broth egg-drop style. I chop the onions and add half of them in. Then I add two tablespoons of soy sauce, one tablespoon of sesame oil, two teaspoons of bullion, a clove of garlic, and a pinch of dried ginger. Last, but not least, I add the tofu cubes.

I turn off the heat for the broth and place the MRE into the noodle water. After about five minutes, the pouch puffs up, letting me know who it is, and I turn off the heat for that too. I take out the MRE with a pair of tongs and put it on a plate. With some oven mitts, I grab the handles of the noodle pot and strain it into a colander. I take the mitts off and get four soup bowls with matching chopsticks. I use the tongs to dish some noodles into each bowl, then ladle the broth in. In a separate bowl, I pour in the MRE rice, then grab some soup spoons from the utensil drawer. I set the table, then call everyone to dinner using the intercom.

In less than five minutes, everyone is here. We all take our seats and begin to eat. Mother compliments me on my cooking, and I respond with a humble thank you. As we dine, we talk about me and my sister's schoolwork, past memories, and how Dad has to check the air radiation outside soon. Hopefully, it's okay to go outside again...

* * *

"Are you serious?!" my sister exclaims the at breakfast the next day.

"Yep, we are going outside," Dad repeats. "I want you guys to get dressed in case anyone sees us. And it's summer, so it's really nice out."

I look at Xenia excitedly. For a full fifteen years, we've been stuck here, and on our sixteenth year, we're finally getting out. No more long, monotonous days with artificial sunlight in hydroponics, but now we have real sunlight. No more breathing from oxygen cans that allow the air to circulate evenly throughout the bunker, but real oxygen.

We finish our breakfast as fast as we can, wash our dishes, and put them on the drying rack. We sprint to our rooms, parting ways. I go into my closet, close the door, and change into a pair of turquoise exercise leggings and a white shirt. I put on my turquoise and white running shoes, lacing them up with double knots. I stand and bounce on my heels, trying to get the feel of the shoes. Now that I think about it, I haven't worn sneakers in quite a while. Lately, I've only worn slippers.

I go to my bathroom and rinse my mouth. I also wash my face to calm myself down, but it only works slightly. Leaving my room, I head to the decontamination center, where the stairs that lead out into the real world are. My sister comes in, wearing the same thing as I am, but instead of turquoise, it's rose gold. Following behind are our mother and father, also wearing sporty outfits.

"Everyone ready?" Father asks us. I nod my head eagerly and so does Xenia.

We walk through decontamination, holding our breaths until we exit and close the door on the other side. Then we climb the four flights of stairs to the top. This is the moment of truth. Dad punches the password into the keypad and the solid iron door opens slowly. Streaks of sunlight peak through the opening, and we have to squint and cover our eyes with our hands. When the door opens fully, we step outside into the broad daylight.

I put my hand by my side again and twirl around, looking at my surroundings. The trees and grass are unimaginably green, and the daisy flowers that speckle the ground are a brilliant white. The air is so crisp, it hurts your lungs to take it in, but also makes you feel good inside. The sky is beautifully blue, with a handful of clouds. The sounds of bird songs fill the space around us, adding to the cheery vibe. The sun is warm on my skin.

I get so caught up in the beauty around me, that I don't even pay attention to the gunshots.