The silence hurts my ears. Warm, sticky blood oozes from my eyes as I survey the devastation around me. Nothing has survived. Not a building, not a cockroach – except me.
I trip and stumble, and burn my hand on the smoldering metal that was once a car. I watch, idly, as my singed fingerprints shrivel off my fingers. There’s no pain. I wonder why.
Bodies around me, dead, lifeless, unblinking, eyes wild and milky-grey gazing into the threshold of the hereafter. What’s on the other side, I wonder?
I hear a noise, a soft groan, and I turn around gratefully, happy to share the world with another beating heart – but, no, it’s an old gutter pipe slowly detaching itself from its wall anchor. I see it, falling, in slow motion, and land on the sidewalk. Then, nothing. Quiet suffocates me again.
A thought screams through my head - happy are those who are called to His supper. Happy are those, happy are those who are called, happy are those who are called to His l supper…happyarethosewhoarecalledtohislastsupper…. Why wasn’t I invited?
Why was I left behind? Was I less worthy than a cockroach? What crime did I commit to deserve such cruel immunity?
How difficult is it to wish myself dead, I wonder. I feel a weak jolt of optimism, a thin line of white hope.
Now I have something to live for – death.
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