She slammed the glass door of the balcony, although that probably wasn’t a good idea, and scrambled across the room, desperate for breath.  She reached her bedroom door and stood there, terrified to move a muscle.  It took all of her strength of will to not look behind her, out the glass, because she knew she wouldn’t be able to keep herself away.  The Flower would torture her mind until she opened the door again, willingly allowing it to take her.  She couldn’t let that happen.         When she could breathe more easily, she took a quick glance at the wall next to her.  The rising sun cast no shadows.  Relieved, she turned around and strode to the balcony doors, careful not to look out, pulling the deep blue curtains over the glass to block out the Flower.  Then she sat down on her bed, pushing her long red hair away from her face, and turned on her little bedside lamp.  She retrieved a pen from the drawer in her nightstand and began to write in the blank book she had managed to salvage from the old building. 

In case you don’t know—in case it’s all over for you—well, I’ll explain it as I go along.  I got this blank book from a strange tan building I found earlier while I was out looking for food.  I went to the place because I saw pictures of food on the windows, but when I smashed my way in, I found no food, although I did find a lot of things made of glass and plastic, like windchimes and necklaces and shoes.  I have to go back tomorrow and bring back some of those shoes.  But it’s too early now; the sun is beginning to shine.                              

We can’t go outside in the daytime, and the windows must be constantly covered.  This is because the Flower, understandably, is attracted to the sun.  I don’t think I appreciated the sun enough when I still had access to it. I would give anything to see a sunrise right now; it’s happening right outside the door, but I can’t watch.        

I did see the Flower, once, and I survived.  It was when it first happened, so it wasn’t as strong.  We were sitting in the dining room, discussing possible theories as to how it came about.  A technology called iReplicate had recently been created—it was wondrous: it was a gel infused with nanotechnology infused with millions of sensors, and basically it could transform into whatever it touched.  It had a remote to turn it on or off.  Well, my theory was that some little kid had probably gotten ahold of it, reprogrammed the remote by some bizarre accident, and left it in the garden—and that it had somehow malfunctioned and morphed with the plants outside.  We knew the iReplicate had touched both a little kid and a plant, because the first thing it turned into…well, that’s exactly what it was.   It was a little boy with curly blond hair and the most adorable blue eyes.  But it had roots for hands, painfully sharp and dripping with thin red sap, and leaves growing in random places on its arms and legs.  Its skin was wrinkled and brown, like tree bark.  We’ve been trying to find it, to somehow get rid of it, but when one of us finally found it, he came stumbling back into the house, tears running down his face when he told us he couldn’t kill it.  Three days later, we found him outside.    

Anyway, we were all five sitting there, having one of those emotional moments when we trade stories other ones we’d lost (it had only been two weeks, but the Flower spread like fire), when I happened to see a little bit of light drifting through a small gap in the curtains.  I stood up, tuning out the conservation at the table, and went to the window, pulling back the curtain just a little.  I was desperate for light and warmth; it was October, and the nights were so cold…and that was when I saw her.  My sister.  Violet.                              

All three of them were taken.  I know because the night she was taken, there was an incident with her seeing the Flower outside the window, and she had seen our mother.  Or what she thought was our mother.  That’s what the Flower does—it simply replicates.  But it gets into your head and makes you think what you’re seeing is real.  I don’t know what it actually does with people.  Anyway, the morning after, she was gone.  Outside with the rising sun.                                                  

When I pulled the curtain back that day, I saw my little sister.  Five years old, wavy pale hair, big brown eyes.  Lavender flowers bloomed out of her hands and sprouted out of her hair.  Her feet were bare, and pale leaves grew from her ears.                  

She smiled the sweetest smile when she saw me.  She reached out with her mutilated hands, and when I just stared—not smiling, not speaking, not moving—her smile faded and tears filled her enormous eyes.  That was when I knew she was the Flower—my sister never cried.  When she was upset, she would go quiet, and sometimes she got a runny nose, but tears never fell from her eyes.  Even when she was a baby, her face was never wet.  So the tears made it easier, ironically, for me to turn away.  Nobody ever noticed.

But now, people of the future, I’m starting to wonder.  If the Flower could literally turn my sister into a plant, surely it could give her the ability to cry, right?                                            

I’m going to take a chance.  I’m going to look out the window.  Back in a minute. 

I saw my sister.  She’s no different.  And I also saw my mother.  Her long auburn hair was woven through with the most delicate white flowers, her pale yellow dress had dark leaves growing out of the shoulders and hem, and her shoes were gone.  Why are all of them barefoot?                                    

They both smiled at me, and my sister reached out her hands to me again.  I know they’re not real, but it would be nice to see them, if only for a minute.                                            

Maybe whoever goes outside never comes back in because they like it outside.  Maybe they found a better place. I think this has turned into a good-bye letter.  I can just imagine what I’ll look like to everyone here: tiger lilies in my hair, magnolias on my shoulders.  Maybe I’ll keep my sanity.  Maybe I’ll change everything and save my family.  Maybe I’ll end this entire thing.  Man, just that though made me excited! What if this journal ends up in a museum?                                

 I’ve decided.  That’s my mission! I’ll see you all again, I promise.   

...

Well, probably not. Good-bye.