I don't have a clue what spurred this about, but I felt like writing something. It doesn't really make any sense, just to warn you beforehand. It's just...I dunno. Something random, riddled with contradictions and stuff that doesn't make sense. But I thought I'd post it up anyway, because I haven't written a short story (or short anything, other than poetry) in a long time. Feel free to comment as you like; it's really only mediocre at best. I'll probably have something different up at a later date that will hopefully be better.
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Nothing really mattered anymore, not since Anchorage. Once you've seen the dead bodies and the gun fights, nothing really sways you anymore. It's all more of the same. More death, betrayal, blood...Bodies, strewn everywhere, as far as the eye can see, before soon you can't even see out of them anymore from the smoke. The ears stop hearing, your mouth stops salivating. Everything just sort of dries up, like the plug being pulled from the shower. We become dry clay, cracked into whatever they want us to be. We become one, we become lesser, we become tools. Tools, used to fight in this war. We aren't really fighting people. Just tools. Weapons of destruction, weapons to be eliminated. Didn't matter. We just obeyed.
After that war, I went home; what was left of it, at least. Bombs had decimated half of Sacramento, the rest of it had fallen away. Mudslides plagued the coast, torrents of floods pooled out from the obscene amounts of rain, and hurricanes came at us from the depths. Natural disasters drove across the continent; the mid-east became scorched earth, barely able to harbor life; the east was entirely flooded, like the west would soon become; the central part of the United States was the only livable place, though to do so we had to be underground. Tornadoes struck down constantly, followed by thunderstorms which were accompanied with large, quarter-sized hail. The ground above was beaten, barely staying up.
This wouldn't have happened if we hadn't left for the war on a suicide mission. This world would still be whole and free; free from oppression and free from plagues. But they sent us to Anchorage. It was a waste of our time, a waste of our lives. It was a diversion to what they wanted, the thing that would normally never have ridden through the Senate with no opposition at all. But after they sent us to Anchorage, they got what they wanted; turn on The Machine. The Atom Cruncher. The machine, buried deep within the earth, slowly ripping apart the atoms in the atmosphere, generating a magnet within the ground. Something powerful enough to create a black hole near our planet, large enough to engulf the world. And now I'm the only one who could turn it off, because I was the only one who lived. What was the point anymore?
Nothing really mattered after Anchorage. It was all gone. No one was there, except for me. No way to stop It, no way to bring them back. I was the only one who would watch as the earth tore itself up from the outside, the only one to feel as it was sucked deeper and deeper into the dark abyss. The earth was flooded. Everyone else was buried in their tomb of mud, cast away to the bottom of the single oceanic entity that was our planet. I was all that was left, and I was nothing. All I could do was drift, and drift, until soon I became so close to space that the air became thin, and it was harder to breath. I was still floating, wondering when I was going to die. Soon enough I'd be spaced, to set my worrying aside.
But I didn't die. I didn't know what it was. But I was still there, after the rain had stopped, after the earth had been sucked into a black hole, slowly being ripped apart. But I wasn't dead. I was the last to go. I saw the sun burn out, a million years later, as the black hole began to feast upon my own body. I saw the universe collapse upon itself until finally, one day, I simply stopped seeing, or hearing, or thinking.
I simply wasn't.