This is, more or less, just something for me to do to pass time. If you like what you read, feel free to PM showing support; it's always appreciated. I plan to update as the thought comes, as there's not really a set schedule. Not all of it will make sense, I admit; at this point, I'm just jotting down random things.
Wednesday
I sat on the roof as I watched the world come to an end, smiling as the cities erupted in fire and were consumed by the resulting ash and carnage left in the wake of an abrupt apocalypse. I saw my skin blister miles before the inevitable, felt the pain root itself in the marrow of my bones. This everlasting agony was unique; it was my own, something I could rightly call mine. Having held no place in the world until now, I could claim nothing to my name - but, a death? This was mine, and I took it gladly, and every time I died was another notch on the belt of things I truly owned. Every time I died, I woke, and it was Wednesday. Today marks the hundredth day the world comes to an end. I've grown tired of dying. but they say time waits for no man.
I've often thought about the others; people caught in the same predicament. Maybe, they weren't, that it was all just a figment of my overimagination, that I dreamed of something terrible - that I'm not even awake.
"Are you alright?" they ask. I don't know how to answer them. I take my cup and shuffle off the mortal coil to a rooftop, all to watch the spectacle unfold.
Today, I have a visitor. Her name is Lydia. Sweet girl, but naive, always talking about tomorrow. Tomorrow is Wednesday. Every day is Wednesday. It was when the car flipped. It was when she died. It was something I wouldn't let go of. Why won't I let go? Why do I refuse to save myself from extinction?
Today, I was the shown the body of my victim, mangled and bruised and cut and forever asleep. I cried. It broke me. Nighttime was never a great time to drive. It was too late. I was gone, lost behind closed eyelids to a world of dreams, only to be jarred from sleep by the sudden lurch forward and the sickening crunch of metal and bone. A car horn never spoke to me so much with the voice of insanity, one that told me it was all my fault. This was my apocalypse. My mind was gone, and now all I have is a rooftop and a view of the end. Lydia, I miss you.
I woke up in a bed. The orderly guided me to the recreational room, where I sat in white, disheveled and eyes puffy. Every night's the same. I dream of Wednesday, I dream of Lydia, I dream of the end, and I wake up in tears. This facility is my apocalypse. This facility is my rooftop. This facility is my end.
I don't get visitors. The ones who loved me once have all but forgotten I exist. I call home, but they don't answer. I've been ignored time and time again. I reach the counter and stare off into space, looking past the orderly behind the protective glass and picturing a road behind her. I'm waiting for the car. I'm waiting for Lydia, but she never comes. "Are you alright?" the orderly asks. I take the cup of pills and shuffle off to my seat. Armageddon has been playing nonstop for six days. One movie a week, they say.
One movie a week is already too much.
I always imagined the movie ending differently. Bruce Willis and the crew end up dying on the rock as it hurtles toward the earth. The mission is lost, we are doomed. We each say our goodbyes and I'm sitting on the rooftop, laughing as it draws to a close. That movie would have made so much more money by people who'd love nothing more than to see humanity fail at doing something. They just wanted reasons to stop caring about the world.
They just wanted reasons to forget that today is Wednesday.
I sat on the roof as I watched the world come to an end, smiling as the cities erupted in fire and were consumed by the resulting ash and carnage left in the wake of an abrupt apocalypse. I saw my skin blister miles before the inevitable, felt the pain root itself in the marrow of my bones. This everlasting agony was unique; it was my own, something I could rightly call mine. Having held no place in the world until now, I could claim nothing to my name - but, a death? This was mine, and I took it gladly, and every time I died was another notch on the belt of things I truly owned. Every time I died, I woke, and it was Wednesday. Today marks the hundredth day the world comes to an end. I've grown tired of dying. but they say time waits for no man.
I've often thought about the others; people caught in the same predicament. Maybe, they weren't, that it was all just a figment of my overimagination, that I dreamed of something terrible - that I'm not even awake.
"Are you alright?" they ask. I don't know how to answer them. I take my cup and shuffle off the mortal coil to a rooftop, all to watch the spectacle unfold.
Today, I have a visitor. Her name is Lydia. Sweet girl, but naive, always talking about tomorrow. Tomorrow is Wednesday. Every day is Wednesday. It was when the car flipped. It was when she died. It was something I wouldn't let go of. Why won't I let go? Why do I refuse to save myself from extinction?
Today, I was the shown the body of my victim, mangled and bruised and cut and forever asleep. I cried. It broke me. Nighttime was never a great time to drive. It was too late. I was gone, lost behind closed eyelids to a world of dreams, only to be jarred from sleep by the sudden lurch forward and the sickening crunch of metal and bone. A car horn never spoke to me so much with the voice of insanity, one that told me it was all my fault. This was my apocalypse. My mind was gone, and now all I have is a rooftop and a view of the end. Lydia, I miss you.
I woke up in a bed. The orderly guided me to the recreational room, where I sat in white, disheveled and eyes puffy. Every night's the same. I dream of Wednesday, I dream of Lydia, I dream of the end, and I wake up in tears. This facility is my apocalypse. This facility is my rooftop. This facility is my end.
I don't get visitors. The ones who loved me once have all but forgotten I exist. I call home, but they don't answer. I've been ignored time and time again. I reach the counter and stare off into space, looking past the orderly behind the protective glass and picturing a road behind her. I'm waiting for the car. I'm waiting for Lydia, but she never comes. "Are you alright?" the orderly asks. I take the cup of pills and shuffle off to my seat. Armageddon has been playing nonstop for six days. One movie a week, they say.
One movie a week is already too much.
I always imagined the movie ending differently. Bruce Willis and the crew end up dying on the rock as it hurtles toward the earth. The mission is lost, we are doomed. We each say our goodbyes and I'm sitting on the rooftop, laughing as it draws to a close. That movie would have made so much more money by people who'd love nothing more than to see humanity fail at doing something. They just wanted reasons to stop caring about the world.
They just wanted reasons to forget that today is Wednesday.