The End

My eyelids are heavy with sleep, but to remember painfully jars me awake. Vestiges of a past world scatter about me in a haze both temporally languid and disorienting. The crunching of glass underneath my feet pulls me back into the present moment. I am instantly grateful for the abandoned leather work boots I found. The thick padded tongue of the boot is frayed, and the toe is scuffed and peeling, but the sole, the only part that comes into contact with the rough earth, remains intact. Sleep threatens to sweep over me, but my feet protest and lead me. My mind reluctantly, but eventually trudges behind. The cool Cleveland wind slaps my face with a malodor. Decades ago, I would have winced and run in the opposite direction. But in this time, it could signify a community of people. So I scurry in the direction of the pungent wisps.

On the walk there, the blades of grass dance in the wind like anemone on the ocean floor. I sway with them — partly to shake off the haze, but also because I feel delirious and need to regain my footing. I start to notice a trail of saliva pooling at the left corner of my mouth. I am hungry, but the putrid smell is still there and intensifies as I walk in its direction, so I suppress my appetite. The smell hits me before my mind can break away from its daze. The potent smell renders a memory too distant to recall. The houses in this culdesac have collapsed gutters, boarded-up windows, and lack-luster symbols and indecipherable words graffitied across the facades. Outsiders would see the Apocalypse, I see the everyday visage of the inner city. And if you go four blocks north, you will be greeted by grand homes that line four-lane streets. I imagine those facades are not yet compromised by weather, broken amenities, or other means. Instead, they stand tall and robust amidst their overgrown lawns. Surely, they do. There must be something that remains unbothered.

From the eerie stillness of the street, I assume no one is home. No one is roaming like I am. The fear of being alone is dizzying, and my knees begin to buckle. I try to brace myself for the projection of bile that starts to spew from my mouth, but I am too late. Some splatters across the top of my shoe, and I think to apologize to the owner. A silly thought, but I am reassured that I at least retained my civility. A smile begins to creep on my lips would be a frightening sight if you were a spectator. This hypothetical scenario causes me to break into a belly laugh, and I double over once more. But the comic relief is brief and gives way to heaving sobs. There is no reason to smile or laugh, and no stranger is watching me from afar. I am incredibly alone and deathly afraid. The realization ushers out a sad, pathetic whimper from my swollen, wet lips. I give a cursory glance to the row of houses and with a post-manic euphoria, I dart towards a two-story house with faded sherbert paint and a sloping second-floor, front porch. Before entering, I look at the porch being supported by two skimpy splintered stilts of wood. It is barely being held up — just like me. Morbid fantasies of the dilapidated house imploding on me incentivizes me to break down the front door. Yet, the house is still standing. Pity. I take in the sights of the house. The house has not been plundered. Rather, it is replete with purses, shoes, fur coats, and jewelry cases stacked atop regal mahogany and ebony dressers. Porcelain trinkets and kitschy items line the shelved walls. A vanity with cracked white paint and dainty pink flowers tracing down the legs sits in front of the dining room table which, surprisingly, is the only cleared surface aside from two large manilla envelopes placed adjacent to each other on the dining room table. I tiptoe towards the vanity. Although I am certain no one is here, I am stealthy as if someone was sleeping through the madness. I wish I was. The golden hinges whine as I pry open the vanity, and I am greeted by a swollen, bloodied face. I let out a blood-curdling scream worthy of 1950 melodramatic thrillers and immediately cover my mouth. I peer around the doorway of the kitchen. There is nothing noteworthy except dirty dishes and rotting bananas festering with maggots on a plastic cutting board. My pace settles seeing the remnants of domestic life, and I walk back to the vanity. I pull out the stool with a plush, mauve cushion and brace myself for the horror that is my face. It is not nearly as frightening now that I am prepared, but I am alarmed by the caked-up blood that encircles my broken and bruised nose. Purple veins showcased in a thin layer of dark, puffy skin entomb my lifeless eyes. A subconjunctival hemorrhage peaks out from underneath my bottom eyelid. I had one once before when I caught the stomach virus last fall, but my episode today was not nearly as violent. I pressed my index finger into my swollen left cheek and was surprised by how warm my face was. Disgusted and dejected by my appearance, I shut the vanity. If there were any lurkers, they would not want to make my acquaintance; they would run away.

I am suddenly overcome with fatigue from the fright and confusion. I make my way to the dining room table and plop onto the faded, creaky bench. Timidly, I peer over both shoulders to ensure no one is watching. Then, like a sneaky child peering into their sibling’s diary, I snatch one heavy manilla envelope and look inside. What I find fills with me a transient excitement. One hundred dollar bills stare back at me, and with newfound energy, I jump up from the bench and shout “I don’t believe this!” to no one in particular. But there is nothing to believe because I recall the banks filing for bankruptcy. The obsoletion of physical currency. Like many others, whoever withdrew this money was desperate to cling to symbols of wealth. The dollar was merely a symbol long before the banks failed and not in a “money can’t buy you happiness” way. Before the antiquation of the dollar, it was merely discouraged. The mom-and-pop shops were the last to resist the push to digital currency, but even they could not support themselves. Digital currency became too prevalent. It locked down every aspect of your life if you did not assimilate. I often asked myself why people had not switched to digital currency earlier. I didn’t see the harm. I pondered this question aloud in my virtual math class when our discussion was led astray by our scatterbrained teacher. A classmate barked at me that these people needed something tangible because, despite how much they owned, they felt that nothing was truly theirs. As I skimmed the countless possessions that covered the floor and scaled the ceilings, I wondered if that was how these residents felt. Did their belongings not conjure up a feeling of ownership, of entitlement?

A prying curiosity replaced my eluding civility, and I counted the bundles of one hundred dollar bills in each envelope. Four bundles of fifty crisp one hundred dollar bills taunted me with their uselessness on top of the stained wooden table. Although I was not oblivious to the harrowing circumstances that befell me, a small glimmer of hope managed to flutter in my stomach. What if this $20,000 that I stumbled upon could grant me the luck that my hapless life had scantly provided? And if I could feel this way, then surely the owners must. I leaped from the bench and surveyed my surroundings. Not a soul. In my peripheral vision, I spot a rickety set of stairs leading to the second floor. Slowly, I advance up the stairs, foolishly calling out “Hello?” The second floor, just as chaotic as the first, was aplomb with mannequins donning clothes redolent of the 1940s. It looked like a shopping mall. Several mannequins were missing an extremity: an arm missing here, a foot missing there. I took the hand of one propped against the wall and politely greeted, “How do you do?”, courting its heavy, stiff body into a clumsy waltz. Not much of a waltz; we merely rocked back and forth. One-two-three, one-two-three. Da da dum dee. Softly, I crooned to my partner, counting out our steps and imitating the violin. “Not even your superb sartorial tastes could make up for your two left feet, my dear,” I jokingly chided. But I looked down, and there was no left foot. I then stumbled over my own, lost grip of the mannequin, and dropped it. Its head dislocated and bounced off of the floor, leaving a chunk of fiberglass behind. A ridge formed from the left shoulder to the bottom of its torso, a chasm that, to me, depicted a broken heart. I chased after the rolling head which stopped at a bedroom doorway. While bending down, I parted my lips to tell it I hadn’t asked for their name, but my proximity and the parting of my lips were sufficient to take in the horrid stench emitting from the bedroom. And there it was, atop a royal purple duvet, were two rotting corpses, with one’s right hand and the other’s left hand propped onto each other. It was a stench only the apocalypse could produce. I retreated backward on the balls of my feet to not disturb them, then swiftly turned around and bolted for the stairs. But I could not dodge the dozens of mannequins and crashed into a lifeless figure, and flew towards the floor. I extended my arms to try to catch my fall, a move I instantly regretted. A sharp pain shot up my right arm as I cradled myself into a ball on the floor. Huddled in the child's pose, I softly wept. As I rocked back and forth, I felt the corner of something jab me in my stomach. With my left hand, I fumbled through my pockets and discovered a small and flimsy black notebook. I wrestled it out from the pocket, the warmth emanating from my body comforting me slightly. With my front teeth and my left hand, I flipped it open and read the harried writing in black ink.

"I need you to understand that I didn’t want to leave you behind. The officer told me that you were as good as dead. What were you doing trying to take yourself away from me? Now, we cannot be together. I’m so sorry. I love you, always."

My head felt heavy, and my heart sank to my stomach. I rolled onto my back like an infinitesimally insignificant insect and cried out to the Universe. Strings of saliva lined my mouth, which bellowed expletives and pleas. In my mind’s eye, I projected myself onto the ceiling to observe myself. I wanted nothing more than to squash myself like a bug. Dozens of questions rushed through my head. Why did I try to end my life when she was the only solace I had? Why had it gotten this far? Why didn’t someone try to stop it? And if they did, why weren’t they successful? Why did people hold on to ephemeral pastimes instead of investing in the long-term? What lasts? Is it pain and suffering? But only joy can beget suffering. Nevermind that.

Why am I here?

Only my ponderings remain.

Not a soul.

I am alone and deathly afraid.