Extinction is Assured

Extinction is Assured

Supernova

1.

I open my bloodshot eyes to witness a red sky. My eyes are irritated from a lack of sleep. I’m a terrestrial being marooned upon a seemingly panthalassic planet. I find myself on an island only a couple of meters wide. There is nothing upon this bit of ground, with my empty messenger bag turned rations bag being the only exception. No stones, no flora, though I feel epiphytic in purpose.

I see no visible signs of life—extant or otherwise. Maybe there are organisms in the depths of the calm, mirror-like waters spread to the horizon before me. But if there is, no signs exist that this is a viable planet.

I possess knowledge, yet I know not how I acquired this knowledge. I have fleeting memories but do not recognize to whom they belong.

My comprehension tells me I have minutes left on my ground—how many are unknown to me.

The nearest sun has gone supernova; I watched it happen and have that knowledge.

Extinction is assured.

Knowing that my life will be forfeited in mere minutes, I cannot bring myself to death by my own hands.

Am I weak?

Suicide is not in my nature. Maybe it should be.

Even then, how would I go about this most inane of tasks? I have no weapons at my disposal. I assume my ship has disappeared below the tranquil waters spread to the horizon before me with nary a wave. Though I don’t recall leaving the confines of my vessel, here I am, contemplating my demise upon this rock.

Suicide is not in my nature. But I could hold my breath and walk into this placid water, where I would drown peacefully(?).

2.

The quakes in my stomach persist—sustenance is most welcome, though there is nothing of nourishment within any direction I look.

My throat is severely parched, but I dare not touch the water. The acrid odor of something wafting from its depths disconcerts my sense of smell. Perhaps the stench could be the growing fog emanating from nowhere and everywhere. Either way, I dare not touch the water.

Am I weak?

Suicide is not in my nature. But maybe I could drink the water and painlessly burn inside?

Would I be so lucky?

Surely not.

3.

The temperature this day is sweltering. I’ve been here for one week less than a fortnight. I know this because I’ve used my boots to make tally marks upon the dust of my ground nearest the water’s edge. I’ve been careful not to disturb the placid water. No dust, no chunks of soil loosed and knocked into the ocean.

My canteen is empty, my stores depleted. When my ship crashed into the mirror-like abandoned pool, but mere feet from the edge of my bit of ground, the ambient temperature was comfortable. The wind is now scorching.

Supernova.

If any life form exists here, including my misplaced self, it will unquestionably be lost to infinity.

Extinction is assured.

Suicide is not in my nature. But maybe I could tie the long fabric handle of my empty messenger bag around my throat and, using my boot, push it away from my body with all my might. The result would be akin to lynching, but instead of hanging from a tree, like the heathens of old, I would garrote myself while sitting down.

4.

Where is my home now?

Where was my life?

These memories I see in my mind are full of faces I neither recognize nor remember.

Where is my home now?

I feel nauseous. My head is throbbing, and my vision is swirling. I feel… I feel….

Awake

1.

I’m awake. I’m… delirious.

Am I awake? Am I delirious?

I feel as if I’m swaying ever so slightly.

What’s that smell?

I can’t move my lower extremities. Why can’t I readjust my position?

I’m incoherent, and my thoughts are unclear. Nothing is making sense.

Everything is swirling… swirling around in my head.

I can’t remember anything. Everything is gone.

What is that horrid stench?

My throat is dry. My skin is crawling—It burns! That odious fog is burning my nostrils, eyes, and skin.

2.

“Hey!”

Was that my voice?

No reply.

Movement… I hear movement somewhere.

My eyes are open, but all is blurry. Why am I unable to focus?

Repeated blinking—it’s helping to remove the fog. The fog… is boiling.

I feel as if I’m swaying ever so slightly.

The nausea is back. The slight swaying isn’t helping.

I’m alone. So alone. My misery is my company, and my company is inept.

Seething… the fog.

Footsteps… I hear footsteps….

Reflection

1.

I open my bloodshot eyes to witness a red sky. My eyes are irritated from a lack of sleep and this burning cloud of nausea-inducing reek. I’m a terrestrial being marooned upon a seemingly panthalassic planet. I find myself on an island only a couple of meters wide. There is nothing upon this bit of ground, with my empty messenger bag turned rations bag being the only exception. No stones, no flora, though I feel epiphytic in purpose.

Though the air around me is boiling, and the fog burns me terribly, I will continue to lie upon my back—upon my bit of ground—and accept the fate this universe has placed upon me. I will close my eyes for a moment as it helps to hide the truth that I’m being suffocated and burned by this damnable fog.

2.

I open my bloodshot eyes and am startled by the face of a woman standing above me. Her hair is long, brown, and disheveled. Her visage is pale, but this acrid fog has started turning her face’s color into multiple shades of red. Her cheeks are stark against the malnourished skin and muscle of her face. Those stark blue eyes that usually meet familiars and strangers with knowledge and astute understanding are bloodshot and full of pain.

This stranger only stands above me, looking down. She doesn’t move, and no sounds escape her thin-lipped mouth. We stare at one another… into one another.

I raise my skinny pointer finger upwards to touch her, and I hope she will extend her finger to feel me. She does not reach.

Is she real?

Neither moves a muscle as we continue to burn together, suffocate, and contemplate suicide.

I know this woman... I’ve known her my entire life. At first, I thought she was my mother—a younger version. No. My mother has been dead for thirty-five years. No. This lonely woman standing above me is… me.

I have a multitude of knowledge, yet I do not know where I attained this information.

Knowing begs questions. Two questions are of utmost importance before I meet my expiration: Is it I who stares down upon my reflection in her throes of death? Or is it she who stares down at herself in my throes of death?

The End