Metaforphosis
Gregor Samsa awoke that morning to the realization that the transformation was a complete success. Indeed, presented with the grim possibility that the only way to continue as a species was inevitably to seek a viable alternative, something sustainable, insofar as having a reasonable chance of procreation bearing fruitful success, and maintaining steady nourishment through available resources, the notion that embedding human consciousness in the brain of a cockroach initially seemed ludicrous. Of course now, the point is mute for the advantages to proceeding with the experiment lends insights far beyond the limits of conjecture, which can only stab out like cerci to feel and sense but not know.
Gregor does not think. He knows. And in knowing he justifies being far superior to the position he held on to, ever so uncomfortably as a biped only yesterday, doomed to constantly stumbling, rather than possessing six legs and all the stability and maneuverability they enable. From his perch, on the edge of the window, he grinds his mandibles sideways to and fro. Hunger has seized him but gazing at the scorched earth he no longer fears starvation but sees opportunity in a boundless feast. Even the most radiated fragments glowing phosphorescent green with the fallout of atoms split so recently present the potential for nourishment. Yesterday's decay and poison, today's rejuvenation and nourishment, he salivates and chews to master the art of consumption more completely before setting forth to enjoy a stroll in the nuclear winter where he shall seek his fame and fortunes so meekly inherited.
A few of the race he shall presently leave behind, so jealous of Samsa's new appearance and wishing for their own salvation to manifest, knock upon the glass. Gregor barely pays attention to their distractions for the cracking crunch of their raps upon the surface present painful irritations to his novel sense of sound which is now so infinitely more sensitive. When one is quite capable of hearing even the hair of a flea's legs whistle while in flights to places more sanguine, then you can imagine how horribly uncomfortable the sounds of those desperately clanging while they cling so desperately to their final moments on earth might sound. Therefore, Gregor not only ignores them but he scurries to find an exit.
"It is time to leave these fools behind" he says not caring if anyone in particular may or may not be listening. Their opinion would not be in the least bit relevant regardless, for satiating a ravenous appetite takes much greater priority. With that, he flattens out to navigate through the cracks and pays zero attention to their screams which will fade much more quickly with distance and distraction. Along the way he collects particles of some flesh from a fresh corpse but it is a genuine thanksgiving feast all things considered. Gregor wonders what took him so long to enjoy such a delicacy. "I should never deny myself what I want in life", he reckons, then concludes "I deserve it". A little while later he decides to focus his time on procreation and continuance of his new yet at the same time halcyon species.
He ducks into the rubble fragments to enjoy the view at the edge of the apocalypse. Gregor Samsa watches as the ash of civilization falls like grey snow. The end of humanity could not be more serene.