Dead Man Walking: A Story of Stars and Goodbyes

The stars were missing tonight.

Not gone, exactly, just hidden behind something heavier than the thick coat of featureless clouds.

The streets were empty, the silence only broken by the steady slap of his shoes as they collided with the pavement. He glanced upwards, half expecting to catch the familiar glimmer of millions of white lights dancing, but the sky offered nothing. Just a solid sheet of black — no stars, no moon, just absence.

He stopped for a moment, hesitating. His finger reached to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, but even the frame felt heavier tonight. The cold slipped beneath his collar. White mist curled from his breath, swirling in the biting air that faintly smelled of damp leaves and distant smoke.

He scanned the sky one last time, then nodded to himself.

Not here, then.

He kept on walking, his feet heavy, as if the earth itself were reluctant to let him go for even just a moment. He pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, desperate for some warmth. His right hand was fumbling with a small rectangle, his fingers dancing along the soft edges mindlessly, careful not to tear the fragile paper.

If you had told him years ago, that a piece of paper would become his most prized possession, he would have laughed at the idea of it. But in a world drained of meaning, this scrap held on like a lifeline.

He let his feet carry him, unsure of where exactly he was going. Not that it mattered anyways. Nothing really mattered anymore. He would have liked to see the stars though, one last time.

A simple wish for a simple man.

The tip of his shoe sent a small stone flying down the empty, dark road. Maybe it was better this way — better not to see the sky tonight. Maybe it was a foolish wish anyways. It wouldn’t change anything, after all.

It took him a while to notice that he had started humming to himself. His brain’s last desperate defence. A melody to drown the silence, to calm the shaking in his chest, to shield him from the weight of what was to come. He nodded his head with the rhythm, then froze, the tune suddenly familiar.

It struck him like a wave, sudden and merciless, and his body gave out, knees hitting the floor as something inside him quietly shattered. For a moment, the only sound to be heard was the shaky exhale of his breath. But then he was laughing, or maybe he was crying. He couldn’t tell. A hollow sound, too distant to be his own.

Ha — haha — haha ha.

Time had stilled around him, and when he finally inhaled, it felt like coming back to life. Every corner of his starved and aching lungs filled with icy air. His hands reached for his face, one to push his glasses out of the way, the other to wipe at the dampness burning into the sensitive skin around his eyes. He took another deep breath before standing up again, his thin fingers automatically finding their way back to the creased piece of paper encapsulated by his coat pocket, kissing it with a soft brush of his fingertip. As he resumed walking, so did the faint hum. Still the same song.

And I’m gone, like I’m dancing on angels

And I’m gone through the crack in the past

Like a dead man walking

And he was.

He crossed the bridge that led to the park near the house he once shared with his wife. Where they brought their daughter to play when she was little. The golden band around his finger grew heavier with each step, threatening to pull him beneath the surface, and drown him in the deep ocean of the past. But he bit back the tears.

A harsh shiver ran down his spine as he walked past the sandbox. Everything looked so different now, so much colder, so much darker. The playground had once been a bright riot of colours and laughter, but now night dipped it into thick, black paint, wiping away all the happiness with it.

His steps grew weaker. A cold hand reached around an even colder chain, feeling every single metal link as his body sunk onto the swing. The freezing metal burned his hand, but he didn’t care. He swung back and forth a bit, enjoying the drop in his stomach when his feet let go of the ground. He swung higher and higher, chasing the feeling that resembled flying. He felt oddly free. Like maybe, if he let go at just the right moment, the sky would catch him.

But eventually his boots scraped along the sandy floor and the swing stopped with a creak. He looked up, expectantly, but the trees were blocking his view.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking. He let out a deep sigh, and left the playground behind — and the memories with it.

Soon, he reached the hill near the park, breath hitching slightly as he climbed upwards.

Once, children had tumbled down it in the summer, their laughter loud and wild, green stains blooming on their shirts. Now the hill was all grey — no grass left, just hard-packed frozen dirt.

At the top, he stopped.

The clouds had finally begun to part.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he could see the stars.

He sat in silence, knees drawn close to his chest, his eyes wide, unblinking.

The stars felt impossibly far away. But they were real. They were still out there. And for a moment, he could breathe again.

His fingers were constantly fumbling with the paper in his pocket, forming a steady rhythm. The earth beneath him was cold and damp. On any other night, he’d have gone home by now, back to the warmth of his house. But this night was different. He wanted to be outside. He had to see the stars one last time.

He shivered slightly as a rustling breeze blew past, his messy hair tickling his face with soft kisses in the wind. He hadn’t touched it in weeks, and it was slowly starting to creep in over his eyebrows.

The pack of cigarettes that lay concealed on the inside pocket of his coat suddenly weighed heavy against his chest. He bit his lip, his fingers itching to pull out the forgotten pack and light one, yet he hesitated. He had promised his wife to stop smoking a while ago. Years by now, probably.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. But sometimes, a man just needed a break. From work, from parenting, from everything.

It all seemed so silly now.

His fingers traced along the edges of the paper box as he thought of the nights he would sneak out into the garden, while his family was asleep inside. His wife had always said that the cigarettes would kill him someday. That he would leave her and their daughter behind. He couldn’t help but let out a dry huff. Of course she’d been right. He did leave them behind. But the cigarettes would not be what ended up killing him after all.

His fingers closed firmly around the pack, drawing it out into the numbing cold. He opened the lid. Three cigarettes were left inside, and his lighter. He pushed the filter end of one of them into his mouth with a sigh, trying not to let himself feel the guilt. Surely she wouldn’t mind. Not tonight, right?

The cigarette dangled in the corner of his mouth for a moment, but then he clicked open the metal lighter, his thumb dragging across the wheel. The orange flame sprung to life, disrupting the night. The smoke stung the back of his throat, forcing him to cough. He blew it out into a thick cloud.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

To his lungs.

To his wife.

To himself.

He took a few more drags, his eyes shut, letting the smoke caress his frozen face. It wasn’t as satisfying as he’d imagined. If anything, it made him sick, the bitter aftertaste of stale air lingering in his mouth.

The cigarette had burned halfway through, when he pressed the glowing tip against the damp ground, where it died with a soft hiss. He chewed his lip, a hint of regret filling him.

Suddenly it felt darker again, colder too. The illusion of warmth that the cigarette had offered for a moment, gone. It was almost pitch black, the street lights long broken. No one replaced the bulbs anymore. There was no point.

He shoved his hand back in his pocket and jumped slightly as his fingers brushed against the familiar paper.

Finally, he took it out, folding it open.

He let his thumb glide over the smooth surface, that had been hidden on the inside. He could faintly make out the silhouettes displayed. Not that it mattered whether he could see clearly or not. He had memorized every detail of the picture, the deep cross-shaped creases evidence of the countless times he had folded and unfolded it over the past few months.

The photo showed himself and his wife, with their daughter. The night had swept away their smiling faces, rendering them expressionless. But he knew how happy they had been back then.

And now, all was lost.

The past three years were nothing more than a blur now. A distant memory, a dream, he would wake up from any moment. But he didn’t.

He still remembered the day they had first heard the news.

“Meteor on course to destroy Earth,” the headline had read.

Back then, a lot of people had refused to believe it. They had laughed at yet another end-of-the-world conspiracy. Like in the year 2000. Or 2012. Or 2083.

But then, more news kept coming out, and slowly it all started feeling too real.

[Global Evacuation Initiative Begins: Spacecraft Construction Underway]

Scientists Estimate Earth Has Two Years Left

-

[International Cooperation Collapses Amid Evacuation Plans]

‘It’s Every Nation For Itself,’ U.S. President Says

-

[Nations Without Space Programs Face Being Left Behind]

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[First Seats on Evacuation Ships Sell for $50M to Global Elite]

-

[Two-Thirds of Europe’s Population Will Be Left Behind]

‘Not Enough Space For Everyone,’ Experts Warn

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[Lottery Announced for Remaining Seats]

Public Urged to Register Before Friday Deadline

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[Each Adult May Bring One Minor Aboard, Says Evacuation Authority]

-

[Estimated Time Left: One Year]

Panic Spreads as Riots Erupt Globally; Stores Looted for Supplies

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[Chinese Spacecraft Malfunctions; Fatal Fire Sparks Mass Panic]

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[EU Reassures: ‘We Will Face This Together’]

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[First Wave of Lottery Numbers to Be Announced Next Week]

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[Religious Groups Reject Evacuation: ‘God Will Save Us’]

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[Rumors of Rigged Lottery Trigger Violent Demonstrations Worldwide]

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[Second Wave of Ticket Numbers Set for Release This Weekend]

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[Global Outrage Grows as Millions Fail to Secure Seats]

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[Who Wants To Be An Astronaut?]

Final Tickets Auctioned Online for Record Prices

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[Take Your Protein Pills and Put Your Helmet On: We’re Leaving Earth This November]

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[One Month Until Launch]

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[American Ship Explodes Before Making It Into Orbit; Global Panic Ensues]

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[Three Days Until Final European Launches]

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[Earth Evacuation Imminent: Final Countdown Begins]

-

[Farewell, Earth]

It was nothing but a distant memory now. The panic, the fear. How surreal it had all felt. Like they had fallen right into a dystopian novel. Sure, he had always known the world was going to end. Some day. Some time in the future. Not now. He always thought humans would be the ones to destroy it, too. Through climate change, or nuclear weapons, or war.

But as it turned out, the universe beat them to it.

Just like that.

Neither he, nor his wife, had gotten tickets in the first wave. They had sat in front of the TV all night, watching as someone read out numbers in a monotone voice. Every time a new number had been called, their hearts had sunk deeper into their chests. No luck.

A few days later, the second round of numbers had been announced. Again, neither of theirs had been called. He remembered that night in particular. How they had lain awake at night, unable to sleep. How his wife had reached across the bed to lace their fingers together.

How he had whispered “It will be fine. I promise you, we will be fine.”

But he had never felt more hopeless.

He remembered his wife starting to cry beside him.

“At least we get to die together.”

Until death do us part.

A week later, they were sitting in front of the TV again, the living room walls threatening to close in around them. The first twenty tickets. Again, no luck. He had pressed a reassuring kiss to her forehead.

And then, finally.

His number.

He had wanted to sigh in relief, to let go of the tension, but he couldn’t breathe at all. They hadn’t won yet. They waited patiently. Then the last three numbers had gone by. The presenter’s face empty, hollow.

“Those are all the tickets. No more numbers will be announced.” Silence. “I— I’m sorry.”

The TV cut to black.

Never had their apartment been more quiet, never had air felt more impossible to breathe. Neither of them had spoken, because neither of them had known what to say. He had tried to swallow, but his throat had completely dried out.

When he eventually managed to press out words, they had sounded foreign.

“You — you take my ticket and you and Maddie get out of here and —”

His voice had cracked.

She shook her head without a sound, tears streaming down her face.

He had bitten his lip so hard in an attempt to not start crying too, that blood was trickling down his chin.

“No, look, you take my ticket and —” he had insisted, but his voice had broken again.

His wife was sobbing now. Out loud and uncontrollably.

“Listen, I’m not leaving you behind here!” His voice had grown loud, angry.

“And I’m not letting you die here either!” his wife had shouted back.

The next few days had weighed heavy with everything left unsaid. They had spoken little, if at all. His wife had cried in the bathroom every night. He could hear her through the walls. Then the fighting had started. They would scream at each other all the time, because they didn’t know what to do with all their anger. A glass shattering against the wall, their daughter’s cry erupting in a different room.

Another week passed.

They had gone back to silence again, and to crying in the dark, when they thought the other was asleep. Finally, five weeks after the announcement, he had sat down next to his wife on the bed. This time, she didn’t flinch away, the picture frame grasped tightly in her hand. The photo of their family smiling, happy.

He had put an arm around her shoulder. For a while neither of them spoke.

“Please.” He was begging. “Just take my ticket. You and Maddie can leave. You can be safe.”

They were both tired from fighting. They were angry, and sad, and broken. But mostly, they were just exhausted.

The room had stilled again.

“Okay,” she said after a while.

And so it was decided.

The cold air sent another shiver down his spine, a single hot tear startling him as it made its way down his cheek. He didn’t even realize he had started crying. He wiped it off with the back of his hand. He didn’t want to think anymore. He didn’t want to be reminded of the day they had to say goodbye.

He knew he wouldn’t see them when he looked up, staring into space, but somehow it helped to calm him down. Somewhere in that sea of stars his family was safe. And he liked to think that they were looking down too, thinking of him.

The meteor was estimated to hit Earth within the next few hours. Nobody really knew when it would happen. Nobody really knew what it would be like. And maybe it was better that way.

A last heavy exhale, that felt like surrender. He leant back on his hands, cold dirt beneath his fingers, small stones biting his skin. He was done with crying, done with screaming. Just a man, sitting on a damp hill in the dark, awaiting his end.

He laughed out loud, shaking his head softly. The sound wasn’t as hollow anymore. He felt oddly at peace.

A smile crept over his face as a shooting star hurled across the sky. He thought about his family.

A final wish for a dying man.