Finding the doctor wasn't as hard as Gareth had feared. With Wren to guide them, now back in his disguise as Dr. Connors, they found him easily, tied up and gagged in a broom closet, only a few doors away from his office. The bonds were tied up in a sloppy way and it wasn't hard for Gareth to untie him.

Your hands are so big, Olban said. Are all humans in your world so... clunky?

"I'm going to ignore that," Gareth snorted, rolling his eyes. "My hands work just fine."

Only because the bonds are so loose. Wren really is rather incompetent, isn't he?

"Jeez, Eloise, no need to be so rude. Wren's on our side now, and he's helped us so far. Besides, wasn’t taming him your idea?”

Sorry, Eloise said, sounding genuinely remorseful. You’re right.

When the doctor saw Wren behind them, he was stirred into a panic— probably because Wren looked like his doppelgänger.

“Uh, Wren, you might want to shift into a different form. You’re scaring the doctor,” Gareth muttered. “Man, this is gonna be a weird conversation.

Wren sighed.

“It’s too bad, I kind of like this form. It suits me.”

Dr. Connors moaned his dissent, his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

Wren shrugged.

“Ah well,” he said. As they watched, he changed from Dr. Connors, to a formless monster, and then into a middle aged woman with big ears and greying hair.

“Tina?” Dr. Connors whimpered, the gag finally off his mouth. “Why are you…”

“Relax, dude,” Wren interrupted, his voice now high pitched and feminine. “I’m not actually Tina. I just look like her. My name is Wren.”

“Oh,” Dr. Connors said, gulping so loudly that it sounded as if he’d swallowed his Adam’s apple. “I- I see.”

“Why do you have to be someone he recognizes?” Gareth asked.

“I can only shift into someone I’ve seen before. Currently that list is very short, especially with my memories mostly gone. He’s gonna have to live with Tina.”

“Gareth… what’s going on?” Dr. Connors asked, finally recovering enough consciousness to speak.

“Dr. Connors… we’re here to tell you about magic. Although it seems you’ve already had your first encounter.”

“M-magic? But, Gareth, that’s…”

“I know how it sounds. But you’ve seen Wren. It’s obvious he’s not from our world… and that’s why I’m here. In order to properly do what I need to do, I have to make you understand what’s happening.”

“Why? What’s… what’s going on?”

“You might want to sit down, Wren said with a dry chuckle. I’m sure these travelers have quite a story. After all, if the Nameless One wants them dead, they must hold monumental power.”

“I… I think I’ll sit down,” Dr. Connors agreed.

Is this a good idea? Olban asked. After all, this could be another minion. Wren could be leading us into a trap. Do we really want to reveal everything?

Olban has a point, Eloise says. I hadn’t thought of that.

Maybe just leave out a few key details. And whatever you do, DON’T tell them about the armbands. This kind of power is best kept hidden. Explain as best as you can.

“Jeez, you guys are so paranoid. Whatever, I’ll do it. I see where you’re coming from, anyway.”

“What?”

“Oh, just talking to myse— haha, wait. No use lying anymore. I guess I’ll start with that. Dr. Connors, I don’t have Dissociative Identity Disorder. The person in my head— well, I guess it’s people now— they are real, and they are both from different universes. Wren is from Olban’s world, and Eloise— she’s the new member— is from a world similar to mine.”

Dr. Connors looked completely confused.

“But… what… how…”

Maybe tell him to save his questions for the end, Eloise suggests. Otherwise we’ll be here all day.

Gareth continued, and soon he’d gotten the whole story out. Well, almost the whole story. Per Olban’s request, Gareth removed a few key details whenever he could, just to be safe. Dr. Connors, understandably, had many questions, and Gareth did his best (with help from Olban and Eloise) to answer. Even so, some confusions would never be cleared up. Dr. Connors, by all accounts a practical man, would never be the same.

And as Gareth and Wren returned to Gareth’s apartment, Dr. Connors got up and did something he hadn’t done in over a decade.

He went to church, and he prayed.

Gareth and Olban slept easily, but Eloise was trapped in some realm between consciousness and sleep. She couldn’t really be awake, because her host body was asleep, but she couldn’t sleep, either. It was a dangerous line, although Eloise had no way of knowing that. And in this blurred realm between dreams and reality, the Nameless One crept silently into her mind.

Do you want to know a secret, little girl? it’s voice asked, shrill and wispy in the fogs of Eloise’s fragile mind.

Who are you? Eloise called out. Olban? Gareth?

They cannot hear you, the Nameless One hissed, horrifying laughter emanating from everywhere at once. You are alone, Eloise, as you will always be.

You’re wrong, Eloise shouted. When this is all over, I’m going to go back to my body and everything will go back to the way it was. To the way it should be. Her voice broke into whispery sobs. All along, she’d been harboring her regrets, nursing her doubt, her anger, her pain. Why did I have to try and kill them? Why couldn’t I have just left it alone?

But are you certain, little girl? Are you certain that you will be allowed to return?

Of course I will! Olban and Gareth are making the rings to transport us all!

She realized her mistake a moment too late, clapping a hand to her mouth.

The damage had been done. The Nameless One now knew what the three of them were up to. And, worse, he knew about the rings.

It seemed to become a great snake in the darkness, curling tighter and tighter around her as it laughed.

Ah Eloise, said the Nameless One, his voice as raspy and dry as a snake’s hiss. Suddenly he sounded so much clearer, as if he were speaking right into her ear. As if he were more real now, more solid. So young, so naive… what are you doing here, in this world of monsters and magic? You don’t belong. You can’t belong.

Leave me alone, Eloise sobbed, her voice suddenly small and insignificant. Please, just leave me alone.

They plan to trap you in Olban’s world. Out of place, out of time. They believe you are a danger to everyone around you. A threat to the universe itself.

Eloise’s breath caught in her throat.

No, that… that can’t be right. You’re lying.

I am not, it said, almost sounding offended at the accusation. Why would I lie to you, when the truth is more damaging than any lie?

I refuse to believe it, Eloise cried. You’re wrong. You’re evil and you’re wrong!

The serpent laughed as it retreated, formless, back into the darkness and the mist.

Think about what I’ve said, little girl. And the next time you are alone and awake in the night, I will return.

Despite the violently churning thoughts in her head, Eloise found herself slipping, falling, into a dark abyss of dreamless sleep. Deeper and almost evil, somehow. The kind of sleep that felt like death.

And from the shadows of a distant void, an ancient evil laughed with scornful glee.

i wake up, omnipotent

the earth, a grain of sand.

my bedsheets are the cosmos

and my clothes became the stars.

is this what creation feels like

so powerful yet alone?

i can be anything, imagined or real

worlds shaped to my will and predictable

people tripping over themselves to bow to me,

standing on the shoulders of the bent and broken

in some strange pledge of loyalty.

i can be anything, sure, maybe.

but i can't help but wonder

what else can i be?

in a golden glade of soprano notes

there's a tree the color of minor key

and with every note, it's crimson grows

with alizarin crescendos.

though bleeding ears may be pummeled and ache

drowned by a shower of endless high notes

and basses so low that they seem to blaspheme.

my eyes will never tire

of watching the seasons change

like a tall dark redbud

blossoming into a dark red song.

a beautiful word for an ugly death,

spilling from my mouth like

blood from an open wound

written on the page like

entrails decorating the floor

each syllable is a promise

of violence yet to come

each syllable is a body

waiting to be found by the cops.

and it sounds really nice

when i whisper it under my breath

wondering when they will notice

my fingerprints at the crime scene.

it sounds like a victory

because every day i say it

is another day that i've evaded

capture.

Once there was a man.

The man was old, and he sat on his creaky rocking chair and stared out at his desert of a lawn. The young boy he'd hired to take care of his lawn hadn't come in weeks.

Ah, to be young. He'd probably found a girl and ran off to the movies, maybe gone out and gotten into trouble alongside his friends. Tasting the bittersweet flavor of rebellion for the first time. The boy was young, and he was exploring, and he had no time for such menial things as mowing an old man's yard. The old man understood this, as he was once a boy. Now youth and exploration had slipped through his fingers, and left him confused and alone, until eventually he became an old man on his own in a two bedroom ranch house, wondering what his hired help was up to at the moment.

Was he sneaking a cigarette? Making love to his latest sweetheart in the back of a car, or maybe going to dinner at her house so he could meet her parents? Was he running through private property, reveling in the thrill of breaking the law? Loving the chase, believing he could never be caught.

To be young.

The old man's arthritis-riddled hands twitched at the memory of a time gone by, and for a moment his straw-colored grass became the great green carpet of the house where he'd lived as a boy. he remembered smelling the sweet grass after a fresh morning rain, dew soaking through his shoes. He remembered the tree he'd found, split down the middle from lightning, that had given him nightmares for weeks. The tree had been large and tall, as any old tree is, and at some point had held a tire swing, but the rope had rotted and the tire had rolled away long before his family had moved there. He remembered the way it looked after it had been split apart, the center blackened and charred like a smoker's lung. each branch had become a mere splinter, bowing to the power of the storm.

The old man couldn't remember why the tree had given him nightmares, but he remembered the dreams, and he would wake up still seeing imaginary smoke curling up from his pure, unburnt arms.

He understood now, though, that as a boy he was terrified of death. The idea of standing too tall and being struck down out of spite horrified him. And for the rest of his life he walked with a hunch.

No longer did he fear death, the end of his life was now a cherished inevitability. Eventually, lightning strikes us all.

The old man saw the mother on the street before she saw him, but she did not seem surprised to see him when she looked up and found him staring. Her eyes met his and he recognized the face of another lightning-struck soul. For some people are struck by the great beam of lightning long before they are buried, and they live out the rest of their days in fiery agony, charred and blackened like the tree but never seeming to lose their remaining leaves.

The old man wondered, often now, if he'd been burning ever since the first time he saw that tree. He wondered how long he'd wandered, burning, just waiting for the smoke to finally ebb and leave nothing but ashes behind.

The woman turned up his driveway and started towards his seat on the porch. She only cast one short look towards his empty husk of a lawn before she turned away, as if the barrenness of it horrified her.

She no longer met his eyes.

She handed him an envelope containing just short of two hundred dollars, a name scrawled on it in rushed pen.

He could not understand, so she handed him a second envelope, this one with a much neater, almost resigned handwriting.

The young boy had written a letter to the old man, telling him that he'd saved every penny that the old man had given. The boy was going to use it to go to college, or so he'd written. But now that he could no longer take care of the lawn, all the money, so he said, was a waste. The young boy had written that the world had changed. Youth was no longer a celebration of exploration, youth was a curse and it had trapped this boy in it's grip. The boy had returned the money to the old man, because he would no longer go to college. He would not go to the movies with his girl or go drinking with his friends or walk the length of the abandoned railroad tracks.

The boy had given up on such frivolous things and turned to a darker ambition. Because to rise tall meant to become a lightning rod, and the boy had beckoned the lightning just like the tree from the old man's childhood.

He had begged for lightning to take him, and when lightning refused he built his own thunder, tied it into a noose and hung himself from a ceiling fan that would now forever be just a bit wobbly every time it was turned on.

He understood now why the mother had ashes in her eyes.

Lightning doesn't just strike the old, it strikes the young as well. It burns and it kills, and everyone knows lightning is contagious.

The old man thought, lightning will strike this woman soon enough. Because she was a mother, and without that she was now nothing at all. Her motherhood had been struck by lightning too soon, and she would spend the remainder of her life craving the lightning, just like her son. She would stand in the water and stretch her tall metal heart to the sky, just waiting for the lightning to finish her off.

And the boy would take his noose of thunder and extend it down to her as a gift. Indeed, he might try to give it to the old man, too, if the old man was any younger.

Lightning strikes us all.

3 Years ago, United States.

Charles Goodwell strapped in his seatbelt, motioning for his driver to move. From the radio came weather warnings, but it didn't bother Charles at all. it wasn't his problem. He was rich enough to pay someone else to worry about it.

All he wanted right now was to get home to his family… well, if he was being honest with himself, he wanted to go home to his hot tub.

Charles Goodwell started off as a good man with a good idea, as many rich men do. What his idea originally was doesn’t matter anymore, lost to time and a devil called progress. All that matters now is that he made money.

Every once and while the car would lurch, like a loser in a boxing match, the winning opponent the Wind.

He made it home safe. His papers were in order, his house spotless (He was very particular about keeping his house clean. Most were afraid to even try, but eventually he paid a large enough sum to convince some damned soul to clean for him. Often he grew angry and criticized some imagined flaw, but not today).

His wife was, as she often was these days, in bed. They’d had eight doctor visits in the last seven days, each specialist more expensive than the last.

None of them could identify what was wrong.

They’d ordered her to cease all contact with her family members or the outside world, but Magpie Goodwell had never been a listener. Today, though, she hadn’t left her room. Charles didn’t mind, didn’t care. He slept in the spare room, it was no trouble. He’d been doing it even before she’d gotten sick. Ever since their second child and the subsequent miscarriage, a rift had formed in their marriage, a rift that they tried hard (and failed) to hide from their kids.

Their oldest, Adelle, was 21. Moved out, gone to college, dropped out after a year and cut herself out of her family’s life forever. Every once and a while she’d ask for a check, but there were no Thanksgivings, no Christmas dinners.

Ricky was only 5. He’d grown up hearing legends of his older sister but had never actually met her. His life was spent in constant fear of ending up like Big Sis, even before he’d entered kindergarten.

In preschool, there were accidents. From birth, Ricky had earned the label of “sensitive,” another word for “undiagnosed autism that his parents didn’t want to deal with.”

Charles loved Ricky, but he could be… a lot. And when Magpie had the miscarriage, she’d lash out at anyone and anything… especially Ricky. Their marriage just kept taking hit after hit.

Charles was tired. He was tired of being married to a sick, probably dying woman. He was tired of managing her mood swings. He was tired of dealing with Ricky and tired of regretting Adelle.

He was tired.

As soon as he allowed himself to think this, yells started from Magpie’s room. He couldn’t at first tell who the yells were coming from, his wife or her caretaker.

It was the caretaker.

Jenna Lang yelled for someone to come, because Magpie was dead.

And then, she began screaming for help herself.

When Charles made his way up the steps, he found Jenna locked in a position of terror forever, eyes glassy and throat dripping blood.

His wife, similarly glassy-eyed, had blood dripping from her mouth. But there were no wounds. It was Jenna’s blood. As she watched Charles, he watched her back. She was dead. Her chest did not rise and fall, her skin was pale and tinted with the stench of decay. There was a wet spot on her hospital dress where the bodily fluids had made their dramatic exit in her final moments.

This was the beginning of the end.

And Charles knew it.

Present day

“So you are the one they call Brun,” Charon says. “You’ve become quite the hot topic among the dead lately.”

Brun doesn’t respond, but he lifts his head at the mention of his name.

“Tell me, Brun. What is it you want? You’ve raided six of the zombie camps in the last week, and killed everyone inside. Your own kind. Why?”

At this, Brun can’t resist laughing, a terrible, mocking sound, deep and full of dark certainty.

“Everything must go.”

“This isn’t a liquidation sale, Brun. Lives are not for sale.”

“Why do you care so much, Charon?”

“I am merely a diplomat, trying to find a compromise.”

“Compromise is impossible.”

“Compromise is impossible, but only if we cannot find a way to unify. If we unite as one, we can show humans that we are a force to be reckoned with.”

“They’ll kill us all. And then they’ll keep killing themselves. Little by little. There’s only one way to stop the carnage.”

Charon’s pleasant demeanor slips for a moment.

“Peace?”

“Death. Everything must die. And it will. It will all end soon. The war is nearing its climax. Extinction is on the horizon. Brace yourself for the coming war, Charon. Because it’s coming. And you won’t survive. None of us will.”

Charon sighs.

Some people are just dead set on violence. Even the apocalypse can’t change that.

Really? Gareth asked. You think we have to watch out for that guy? If you ask me, Siren is the one we need to look out for.

"Goliath is big, which means he'll be good defense," Olban responded. "He's strong, and he's ruthless."

Guys? What are you even talking about? They all look terrifying to me!

Goliath is slow, Gareth continued, ignoring Eloise, which means that once we get past him he won't be an issue. But Siren is fast and strong, the perfect combination. She's the real threat.

Eloise looked out at the opposing team, and suddenly she felt very small. Goliath is big and strong, Siren is fast and agile. How could she compete against any of them? She was just a girl in someone else's body, scared, lonely, and trapped with two strange guys. How could she do anything useful when obviously everything was so far out of her league?

Think, Eloise, think. You have to figure this out. You have to prove that you're not the annoying little spoiled brat they think you are.

But how?

"I'm telling you, Goliath is the biggest threat!" Olban says, nearly yelling now. "It's impossible to top his strength."

Siren is fast. She can catch us even before we cross into their territory, and she'd get to the king before we'd even be able to start moving.

Eloise shuts them out. There must be something that they're missing. A piece of the puzzle that hasn't been considered.

Naga.

That's it. Gareth and Olban have each focused so much on their individual that Naga has slipped through the cracks. If they were going to create an effective strategy, they needed to account for all the variables.

Guys, Eloise says.

Olban and Gareth keep arguing.

GUYS, Eloise says, nearly screaming. The last few days had taken a toll on her. She was tired, scared, angry, and alone. All she needed was a break, but the universe didn't seem to want to offer her one.

"What, Eloise? Can't you see we're busy?" Olban snapped. "Unlike you, we're actually trying to get something done."

The words stung, but Eloise brushed them off.

You guys need to stop focusing on one person. If we want to have an effective strategy, we need to account for all their strengths and weaknesses. That means Siren, Goliath, and Naga. Goliath is the brawn, Siren is the speed, then it stands to reason that Naga is probably the brains. We can use that. Plan for it, even. And here's the thing. Each of us has a king who's going to be basically out of commission. We have three minds, but one body. They have three bodies, but they also have three minds. When it comes to skill, agility, and strength, we're outmatched. But brains? We can do it. We just need to focus.

"So, what do you propose, oh-wise-princess?" Olban said, rolling his eyes. "Surrender? Run away? Like you did to your real body?"

Eloise couldn't stop a vile hiss from breaking its way out of her thoughts, but she didn't say the words she wanted to.

Dude, that was too far, Gareth said. Eloise swallowed her surprise. Gareth? Sticking up for her? That was new.

"Fine," Olban muttered. "Teamwork, don't fail me now. What's your plan?"

Maybe the best way to have teamwork is to be separate, Eloise said, feeling more confident now that she had their attention.

"What do you mean?" Olban asked. He was annoyed, but at least he was trying to hide it. That was progress.

I mean, instead of all of us focusing on one person, each f us focuses on a different person. At the same time.

Is that even possible? Gareth asked.

"It... actually might be," Olban said. "Why hadn't we thought of this before? Eloise, you're a genius. You've been holding out on us!"

Eloise tried not to let it affect her, but she's proud.

Maybe this can work, she thought to herself. Maybe we can do this. Together.

"Alright," Olban said, now talking loud enough for the other team to hear. "Let the games begin!"

At once, Olban sprang into action, headed straight for Goliath.

Siren, on your right, Gareth said. A quick adjustment meant Olban just barely avoided getting hit. Siren, maybe for the first time in her life, stumbled and lost her rhythm, cursing as she trips.

By the time she got back up, Olban had already made it too far to catch up.

Olban's faster than he gives himself credit for, Eloise muses. How have I not noticed that?

He weaved under Goliath's strikes with ease, and then Eloise saw it.

SWORD, UP. NOW! she yelled, and by some miracle, Olban managed to get his blade up just in time to block a well-timed strike from Naga.

"Damn, she's good," he muttered as she slashed and hacked at them with vicious intensity. "She knew Goliath's weakness and she was ready to defeat us. Good eye, Eloise."

This time, Eloise didn't bother feeling any pride. She was too busy fighting for her life. Or at least fighting to avoid injury.

Naga was relentless. Strike after strike, hit after hit. She wasn't as fast as Siren, or as strong as Goliath, but she had the endurance of both of them combined, and then some.

We need to get out of this somehow, and fast, Eloise said.

You be on the lookout for the other two, Gareth said. Olban, you focus on attacking.

"As if I could focus on anything else," Olban said through gritted teeth.

Siren's coming up behind us, Eloise said, worry creeping its way into her voice.

"Perfect," Olban said.

She's getting kind of close, Gareth said, now sounding worried as well..

"Wait for it..." Olban said, blocking a strike that nearly topples them to the ground. He didn't sound worried at all. If he was worried, he masked it well.

I don't see Goliath anywhere, Eloise says. I bet they're planning something.

"Wait for it..."

The blade missed them by a mere fraction of an inch. If Olban's hair was any longer, he would've gotten an unexpected makeover.

Siren, unable to stop after her lunge, toppled right into Naga, and both of them tumbled to the floor in a messy heap.

Now, we just need to find the king, Gareth said.

DUCK! Eloise screamed.

This time, Olban doesn't move in time. Goliath's blade, by a stroke of luck, was dulled, but if it had been any sharper, and if Eloise had been any slower, Olban would've gotten his arm cut off.

As it is, Goliath's swing left a gash in Olban's arm before he managed to roll away. Even if his body was the host, all of them felt the pain as if it were their own, and Eloise felt tears come to her eyes. She'd never felt anything like this before. Rolling away from Goliath had probably bruised up their entire one side, and blood was running down the other side from the sword wound.

Isn't this supposed to be a game? Gareth cried out. It's starting to feel more like a death match!

But Olban ignores him and keeps running, soon leaving Goliath out of sight.

Just as they're reaching the end of the arena, movement rustled.

It's Maiko, their king.

As they chase him, Eloise realizes the flaw in their plan. They'd never considered what Maiko's abilities might be.

Gareth had thought Siren was fast, but she was a turtle compared to Maiko. He ran like a man possessed, yelling something about "Glory for the kingdom" as he went.

Yeah, he's way too into this, Eloise said.

"And that... makes... him... dangerous," Olban said through heavy breaths. He was getting tired, exhausted, even, and still he came nowhere near to Maiko's speed.

We need a new strategy, Gareth said. Somehow, we need to slow him down, or we'll never win. He'll lead us right into a trap.

Gareth is right, Eloise said. We can't win like this. She felt as though her lungs are about to burst, even though she's not the one running.

But to their surprise, Maiko didn't veer off course. He ran, right into their side of the arena. He'd stopped yelling.

"We won," Olban says. "We... we actually won. Hey, Maiko, you can stop running now!"

Maiko doesn't stop, and soon they all realize why.

He's not playing the game anymore. He's running for safety.

Because something big is behind them, it's footsteps crashing through the underbrush. In their frantic running, they hadn't heard it before, but Maiko had.

Behind them was a monster, bigger than anything Wellick could have even imagined transforming into. Were they the same creature? It was impossible to tell. But this one was obviously more powerful.

Ah, shit, Gareth said. Just when we'd gotten a break.

The monster behind them rears it's eyeless, toothy face into the sky and screams with deafening force.

"I think," Olban said, "that this is the part where we run."

But the monster doesn't seem interested in chasing them down anymore. As soon as Olban starts moving, a slimy hand closes around his throat, lifting them above the ground.

The monster twists to look at them and it's wide mouth twists into a grin.

"I could kill you right now," it said, in a voice like barbed wire mixed with gravel. "But someone wants to see you."

They struggle to fight against the darkness at the edges of their vision. They can't breathe, none of them can breathe. It's a helpless feeling.

Finally, Olban can stay conscious no longer. His entire body aches, both from the game and from the monster.

Teeth are the last thing they see before they can stay awake no longer. Teeth, and a lolling, pimpled tongue, twisting as the monster laughs.

Then everything is gone.

Once upon a time is such a cliché way to start a story, but here we are. Once upon a time, you know, I was a writer. Oh, yeah, you'd better believe I was. I used to know all the right words, how to start a story, how to end it, and all the shit in the middle. Now I start my stories with "once upon a time" and "syntax" might as well be an alien planet. And don't even get me started on finishing stories. I haven't finished a story, a real one, in years.

Every writer knows the term "writer's block," knows it like an old friend. But this block, it's different. And it ain't just me, either.

I suppose it happened in the plague of '83. 2083, I mean, not the '83 with all the music and shit. There ain't no music anymore, no sir-ee. World's gone quiet it has. No music, no books, no pictures, no nothing.

Once upon a time, I was an artist.

Now, there's no art left.

I once told my therapist that my happy place was on the edge of a broken down building, in the middle of an apocalypse that's left the world barren and desolate.

That's probably the least bullshit thing I've ever told a therapist. Dystopia and fantasy are the novels that have always interested me, a kind of forbidden allure that even now I still don’t understand.

Maybe that's why now, sitting here, it feels so surreal. It looks exactly like it did in my head, even all these years later, and I only have one thought in my mind.

God, I was so fucking stupid.

It’s always easy to read about the end of the world. To romanticize it in your head. Somehow, I thought the apocalypse would be exciting, new, beautiful, the kind of danger and glory that I never got as a kid. I thought my life was boring.

But that? That was a carnival compared to this.

Oh, sure, I can steal whatever I want. I don’t have to worry about money, or showers. No obligations, no structure. My to-do list consists of three things: eat, sleep, and explore.

It’s everything I ever wanted, and it’s fucking boring.

Back in my old world, I was lonely. I was burnt out. I was jaded and bitter and I was tired. God, was I tired.

Now? I’m all of those things, but more. I’m more tired, more lonely, more burnt out, more jaded, and a hell of a lot more bitter.

We always want what we can’t have, I suppose.

Yesterday I talked to a raccoon. Or, tried to. It screeched at me and ran off with my sock. That encounter shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did. But it did; it did bother me. And it still bothers me.

I can’t remember how the world ended. I remember my past, it’s not like full-blown amnesia, but when I try to remember how I got here… nothing. I don’t remember the news stories, I don’t remember a disease, or a bomb. All I know is that at some point, I stopped living in my idyllic bubble and ended up on the roof of this building. I don’t know what it used to be. My sense of direction has always been shit, and these days, there aren’t any street signs to tell me where I am, or where I should be.

I always said humanity was going to end. I’d started saying it long before 2020. I’d been fantasizing about the end of days from the beginning of my days, I suppose.

Normal people, they thought about boyfriends or girlfriends, or maybe the really enlightened ones dreamed of world peace and blossoming fields. But me? I dreamed about apocalypses. I dreamed about fighting monsters and superpowers and living in a haunted house. I dreamed about secret organizations, with me caught in the middle. I dreamed about fiction. And now, my fiction has become reality, and I hate it.

Typical me, I suppose.

I was scared to get into middle school. I’d read too many books about how awful it was. But by the time I got to high school, I realized that the worst years of my life were in elementary school. I lost my pets, was swamped in educational pressure and bullying, and my only friend was constantly manipulating me and I was too naive to realize it.

I made a lot of mistakes in those years. We all did.

I thought, by the end of high school, I would be fixed. No more mistakes. No more bad decisions. No more pain.

But obviously I must have made a mistake somewhere along the line, because here I am.

I’m living in this apocalyptic wasteland.

And somehow, I keep feeling like it’s all my fault. Like my fantasies caused this, somehow.

But of course, that’s just my imagination acting up again. I’ve always wanted to be a main character, even if I never had the strength to admit it to myself. I wanted to be the superhero who saves the day, with incredible powers, constantly beating the odds and finding strength even in my weakest moments. I’d even settle for being the surprisingly relatable antagonist, fighting for a warped idea of justice.

But I’m none of those things. I’m not a villain, or a hero. None of us are. In life, there’s no such thing as a main character. Even here, when I’m the last person alive, I’m no main character. I’m just another droplet of conscience in the rainstorm of the universe.

Someday, I’ll be gone. No more boredom. No more selfishness. No more pain.

But for now? I guess I'm trapped in my own fantasy.