Since the End of the World

*Trigger Warning: Contains thoughts of suicide*

14 Days Since the End of the World

I found you lying under a pile of rubble. You were there, almost in mint condition, which I found so delightfully surprising. And next to you was this pen. Also, in good condition. As if both of you were saved just for me.

 To sum up: World War III happened. Every country was against the other. More countries had nuclear bombs than initially thought. We fired on each other. A series of attacks across the world.

It was horrific. To say the least.

Like everything within the last century, the war felt distant, at first.

Seen only on television. Social media. Brief snippets of wailing children before scrolling on to a cat video.

Until you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Until it was right outside your window.

And now.

Now there is nothing left.

That I know of.

How did I survive?

Do you remember that scene from Independence Day when Vivica A. Fox hides in the underpass with her cute son and adorable dog? That was me. Except I was alone. And I’m not Vivica A. Fox. No one could be Vivica A. Fox. No one else could look that perfect while running from aliens.

I digress.

I was listening to the radio, in my car, in dense traffic, trying to cross the border along with everyone else.

The radio suddenly went out. There was silence. Cars stopped. People got out, looked around, trying to figure out what was going on.

I freaked. I knew something was coming. So, I ran. And found a small electrical room in the underpass. And locked myself in.

And then the world exploded.

 When I came out from the underpass the streets were covered in ash. I couldn’t breathe. I had to wrap my shirt over my mouth to protect myself against the air.

I spent the next several days squinting my way around.

Piles and piles and piles of brokenness covered the streets.

Broken cars.

Broken buildings.

Broken trees.

Broken toys.

Broken bodies.

Everything was quiet.

Silent.

Maybe my ears were broken from the explosion.

Or maybe there was just nothing left.

Today I found you. Sitting next to this pen. And a doll with one eye. She’s in my lap, staring at me. She’s got smudges on her cheeks. It’s been fourteen days since the world ended. I was never a writer so it’s hard for me to say what I want to say. What I want to describe.

I’m lonely.

And I’m glad you’re here.

20 Days Since the End of the World

I thought when I found you, I’d write every day. That I’d have so much built up to talk about, that it would just come pouring out of me.

Not the case.

When I go to grab you and I sit down to write, nothing comes. I sit and stare at you. And wait. And nothing comes.

A writer friend of mine (now dead. I think.) told me that writing takes practice. That someone, someone famous I think, once said that writing is about persistence over talent.

Well. I’ve never really written. So.

And now I’m writing at the end of the world.

Who am I writing for?

21 Days Since the End of the World

I’ve tried several times now to write about my past. The time before. What I did. Where I lived. My friends. My family.

Angie-

25 Days Since the End of the World

I screamed today. Just screamed. Wailed loud and long. I did it, at first, because I wanted to make sure my voice still worked. I haven’t used it in 25 days.

During the first couple days of solitude, I tried talking to myself. Narrating my movements like that Matthew Broderick guy from Lady Hawk. But it felt strange. And too loud.

And then I tried talking to the doll that I found. Sorta like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, but that didn’t feel right either. Also. Too loud.

But today, I thought it would be best to just test out my vocal chords.

It’s something I’d always wanted to do.

Ever since I saw that scene in Garden State when Natalie Portman, Zak Braff, and the other guy scream into a crater.

It looked so cool.

To scream into nothingness.

Scream into a void.

Scream like there was no one else around.

And now there’s no one else around.

So, I screamed.

And I ended up screaming for longer than I intended.

I screamed in the middle of the rubble (there is nothing but rubble and rubble and rubble for days and days and days just rubble).

And while screaming, I started sobbing. Out of nowhere. Just sobbing. Tears streaming down my cheeks and I sorta hoped that someone would come. Someone would emerge. Someone would pop up from the endless rubble (rubble rubble rubble) and say, “Hey! Don’t scream. I’m here. I’m right here. We can be together now.”

But no one came.

26 Days Since the End of the World

Today I saw a deer.

A doe.

Scrounging through the rubble.

It felt.

Unreal.

I saw it and became absolutely still.

I watched it wade through the rubble, for what felt like hours.

Its feet were so careful, gracefully avoiding glass and sharp edges and bodies.

I’ve been eating roaches and insects and…whatever else I can find. Cooking them with my lighter that is nearly empty of fuel.

When I saw the deer my first instinct was to kill it.

I’m so so so so so so so so so hungry.

But how could I kill it?

It’s just her and I out here.

Just Her and I.

27 Days Since the End of the World

I ate the deer.

28 Days Since the End of the World

I threw up the deer.

29 Days Since the End of the World

I am still throwing up deer.

I think this is Karma.

30 Days Since the End of the World

I will never again eat deer.

35 Days Since the End of the World

I dream about deer.

I dream about its eyes and the way it tried to run even after it was shot.

I dream that I’m chasing her and that someone is chasing me.

Often times, I dream that I am the deer.

Being hunted.

Being killed.

When I die, I feel so relieved.

40 Days Since the End of the World

What is the thing inside of us that makes us want to survive?

I never really thought about it before.

Cast Away for example.

I never liked that movie. I thought it was so, incredibly, boring. Tom Hanks on his own, alone on an island for what felt like a 3-hour film.

And now.

Well.

Now, I get it.

And now I can feel what he’s supposed to have felt. That scene when he tries to kill himself. Where he hangs the rope from the branch and tests it out.

For me it would be easier.

I have a gun.

And I’ve spent the last several days staring at it.

But I don’t do it, and I don’t know why.

What is the point in me staying alive?

I’m barely surviving.

I’m lost in memories I can’t even write down because it hurts too much.

Because if I let myself think about the before, I just crack.

And I can’t crack because I’m telling myself that I have to keep moving.

But keep moving, for what?

For who?

Keep moving for who?

41 Days Since the End of the World

 There is someone sitting on a pile of rubble up ahead.

He hasn’t seen me yet.

He is sitting next to a fire he has made.

I watched him make it.

His movements were slow.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Hah.

He now seems to be lost in thought.

I wonder if he thinks he is the only one left.

I have tried, several times now, to approach him but each time I stop myself.

It’s so very funny because if you had told me yesterday that I would see someone, I would have screamed for joy.

I would have jumped up and down and smiled and felt like a real human being for a few moments; for the first time in 41 days.

But I have seen too many television shows about the kind of people that survive the end of the world.

The monsters that we can become.

So, now I am sitting here.

Watching him.

I have been watching him for so long that I have convinced myself he has a kind face.

I have been watching him for so long that part of me wonders if he is a hallucination.

42 Days Since the End of the World

There’s only one way to be sure.