Dark

It's dark tonight. I know that's not really saying much; It's dark every night. But tonight, it feels much darker.

This pitch black darkness comes from within. All hope is lost. There will be no bright futures for our children. We will not grow old in harmony. No dreams will be achieved, nor happy memories made. Not anymore.

It has officially been three month since they wiped us out. Is it just our town? The state? The whole country? The entire world? Who knows. There's no way we'll ever find out.

It's not like we haven't tried. Those who leave us to find answers? They never return. They're either never heard from again, or their screams pierce the night air until the breath leaves their lungs. I prefer the former; at least that way I can convince myself they're still alive, somewhere.

They're probably hiding. Maybe inside the convenience store on the corner. The store that was once filled with necessities as well as luxury items which once held a place in our daily lives. It's now running on empty. The shelves are bare, hardly an item in sight.

It was all snapped up as soon as word got around about the attack. People started arming themselves with supplies, started stocking up on food. Little did they know that they wouldn't be using them; there's no need for any food when you're dead.

More than 90% of us are gone. Well, not gone. Their bodies are all still here. Some were found in their homes, but most were left on the street.

Their bodies litter the pavement like roadkill. The blood flowed down the gutters like rainfall, staining the cement a deep crimson red.

At first, we survivors started to move the bodies to the park. We'd cover them up with sheets, as a sign of respect. We'd have a nightly vigil for those who lost their lives. But as the bodies continued to pile up, the amount of survivors decreased. It was just not practical to move that many people anymore. That, and the smell.

The smell of the cadavers pollutes the air. It reminds me of the way an exterminator would remove a rodent infestation. We are pests in our own town, stuck and screaming for help while the smell of death is all around. It sinks into every crack and crevice, showing us what's to come. It haunts us day and night, not a single gasp of air is protected from the scent of decay.

The longer this goes on, the worse the smell will get. As I said, it's been exactly three months since the attack. There has been no help, no refuge.

There is no electricity. This means no heating to get us through the cold nights, let alone any cell service. A few of the survivors have old radios and have been trying to reach out. To anyone at all. They've had no luck.

There is no running water. We are running out of bottled drinks, running out of any supplies that might help us live to see another day.

There is no help.

I've seen enough post-apocalyptic films in my time to know what we're suppose to do. We're suppose to fight. We're suppose to push on and do all that we can to save ourselves.

But, do you know what those movies never prepare you for? They don't prepare you for the fact that you'll want to give up. No one wants to live alone in an empty town. No one wants to wake up and smell the rot of dead bodies outside their windows every morning.

What is the point of putting ourselves through hell? Life has truly turned into an unlivable experience. The pain and the suffering is all too much. There are no more resources to try, and our supplies are wearing thin. We knew this time would come. Which is why, two months ago, we made the pact.

The remaining survivors in our town all gathered together to talk this through. We had to be very, very quiet, so that we weren't heard.

We'd rationed our supplies. We'd gathered our weapons, even learnt how to use them properly. We protected the younger kids, taught them about the dangers and made sure that each of us followed every single rule. We'd done everything right, and it wasn't enough.

We were all in agreement about what would have to be done: If three months had passed with no improvement, we would drink a mixture made up by the towns pharmacist, and it would end what was left of our lives.

There was a bit of uncertainty at first. We said we would reassess as the three month mark drew closer. That night, we lost another 16 people in another attack. By the next morning, those who were unsure had made up their minds. It was all too much to continue to bear.

During the following week, there were 6 suicides. People who didn't want to wait, I suppose. I can't say I blame them.

First to be found was a man who lives on my street. He'd taken his pistol and pulled the trigger with the barrel inside his mouth. He'd left a note saying that he needed to do this to pass on and be with his wife. She was taken in the first attack. We found him on her side of their bed, covered by her cardigan. Her heart-shaped locket was wrapped around his hand. I hope he found the peace he was looking for.

The other suicides were a family of 5. The pharmacist, his wife and their three boys. They were found in their dining room, in the middle of their meal. Foam in their mouths, and blood seeping out of their eyes. There was a note pinned to the fridge with a recipe to make the deadly concoction. At least we know it works.

So that brings us here, to my note. If you've found this, I'm dead. We all are. We've just sat around the campfire, and have had one last hurrah. We talked, we laughed, we sung. There's no need to be quiet anymore. We finished our food rations, and followed them with the sour tasting liquid that will end our lives. Mine trickled down my throat a few paragraphs ago.

It has been approximately 5 minutes, which is how long it's predicted to be until the mixed poisons take effect.

I'm feeling sickly. Looking around I can see that half of the survivors have gone into their homes to die in peace. I can't say I blame them, but I also don't think I'd be able to move if I tried. I'm feeling more and more tired with every breath.

What have I done? I don't want this.

But maybe it's what is for the best? Maybe it needed to be done?

No, it didn't. We could have survived.

But it wouldn't have been a life, not really.

It might have improved. We should have fought with all of our might.

My eyes feel droopy and heavy. I don't think I can keep holding my pen upright.

It's dark tonight. It's getting darker and darker, the darkness is claiming me.