14:44

Anna Mirella Fields

2090 A.D.

14:44

He walked along the old street, the cracked pavement crumbling even further under the weight of his movement. It was dark; the street lamps hadn’t been lit for years. He recollected how not so many years ago the street had been rife with light and activity, the streets clean, even, and freshly painted. He remembered the green, so much green. It had been everywhere; he remembered breathing in the fresh, crisp air. The air now was dry and tight--there hadn’t been trees in this part of town for a long time.

He took a seat on the block of metal that he rested on every day. He had forgotten where it came from, maybe an old air conditioner...oven...? He didn’t know. The years of isolation had taken their toll on his memory. He vaguely recalled a woman...maybe a man...and a small child, but who they were and why he remembered their faces was a mystery. He heard in his mind the constant buzz of noise; the cars, the laughs, the music blasting over a speaker by some kids--so loudly it could be heard from half a mile away. He felt a little surge of irritation at the thought, and then laughed to himself, realizing he missed the feeling.

This had been his routine of choice for nearly ten years, ever since the lights went out. He remembered that day well, but if you asked him to recall a single day since then, his mind felt foggy and he receded back into his calm silence.

The day the lights went out was the beginning of the end. First it was the lights, then the water, and functional electricity had stumbled to a halt. Three days later, the government made what would be their last ever statement:

There is nothing more we can do.

Any hope that still existed had vanished overnight. He didn’t know what happened to everyone else, though he knew many had frozen or starved. He wasn’t sure how he’d survived, but here he was. He looked down at his wrinkled hands and wondered whether he was meant to have gotten this far. The hazy faces of one adult and one young girl passed through his mind, as they often did. He wished he knew who they were. For ten years the only thing he knew for certain was this quiet, broken street, and the metal block that had become his place of peace. He touched his neck and ran the thin chain that laid there through his fingers until he felt the cold metal locket, one of the few items he hadn’t lost or disposed of over the years. He wished he knew where it came from.

He was tired. He had been so tired, so numb, for so long that he’d forgotten everything else. He often wondered what the point was, what he was there for, and had since realized that the concept of a life purpose was gone long ago.

The locket clasp had been sealed for years--he hadn’t wanted to damage it. He gently undid the clasp and opened the locket to see colorful pictures drawn in crayon. He smiled, but he couldn’t figure out why. He wished he remembered where they came from, but they gave him a feeling of deep peace.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, imagining that the air was cool and clean, that the earth around him was covered in grass and flowers, imagining the world before the atmosphere became too thin and the sun too strong. He clasped the locket again and gripped it one more time.

His nights had been blurred, his years cloudy, but this one was calm and peaceful. He breathed in for the last time.