For a while, nobody says a thing. Nobody looks at each other, nobody even blinks. There is nothing to say. If anything was going to happen, it would have happened ten minutes ago, oblivion would have arrived already. For a while, nobody says a thing.
I expected it. We waited for months, some of us for years, planning our time carefully, pretending to live each day as though we would die the next, although the date of our death had already been set centuries in advance. The truth of it was that, while we tried in earnest to live this way, we also failed at doing so. We prioritised the wrong things, obsessed over the wrong values, and never once did we look back and think about how what we were doing was so wrong.
I expected it. I had waited for years. Reserved myself, kept myself back from the edge and spoke to nobody. Trying in earnest to keep myself as unnoticed as an abandoned child; the kind that nobody wants to look at, but can never quite ignore. The hatred never built. The lust did. Knowledge accompanied my detached façade, the inevitable kind that forces you to stare into the face of unavoidable truth, and ignore it entirely. I never wanted to hate myself for it, but I did.
Seven years before the world ended, I stopped wanting to be a girl. Two and a half months before the world ended, I stopped being one. Drink came first. The years beforehand, the kind of naïve experiences that accompany the early teenage years – this is what my parents do, this is what I should do. I want to grow up early. I want to be someone different the moment I turn thirteen. This is what I will do because this is what adults do.
The burn comes later. When the discovery of weak, alcohol-imbued soda is no longer enough, the hard stuff suffices. When that will no longer do, you’re left in a perpetual state of wondering why you haven’t found something new and exciting already.
Smoke can make drinking more exciting. Inhaling, exhaling, lighting up seven times in less than an hour; dragging the smoke and traces of spirits down into your lungs, breathing it in, letting it infect you. The stuff goes straight to your head. You don’t need to drink too much to suddenly seem like the only stoic character in a room that is revolving. You don’t need to take that last shot to stumble around, blind, forgetting everything before remembering it moments later. Smoke drifts away, becomes something you can do every day, not just when you need that little extra excitement in your life.
Five years before the world ended, I fell in love. I never wanted to fall in love. I wanted to be a perpetual pillar of hatred and cynicism, I didn’t believe in anything that anyone else believed in. I wanted to be the one to crush frail human illusions of finally being accepted and settling into place as one of a number; one of the same, one of that lifestyle choice. I wanted to let the world know that it had burned me, and that the scars had remained. I failed.
Four years before the world ended, I started hating it again. Love was not love, hate was not hate, nothing made sense anymore. Suddenly, my emotions weren’t so linear; they had drifted closer to the surface and were threatening to destroy my skin. They were trying to tell me something, trying to tell me that I was wrong, that everything was wrong, that I had no idea. I had no idea. I knew everything. I had always known everything.
Three years before the world ended, I spent most nights alone. Two fingers pressed in on the back of my throat, massaging it until that familiar feeling came; gagging, finally, my vindication against the name calling. Finally, I had found something that allowed me my revenge. How could anyone mock me when I was no different to any of them? How could they attack my physical imperfections when there were none? This was my salvation, every substance I had consumed through the day coming back on me, not allowed in for any more than five minutes. How long did it take for the body to digest food again? Oh well. It didn’t matter. As long as it was in the sink, it was not digested.
Two and a half years before the world ended, I was not thin enough. Two years and five months before the world ended, I gave up on my future goal in favour of a new one that nobody could mock.
Two years before the world ended, we met each other. A relationship based on self-loathing and innate disgust of everything around us was what I had always dreamed of. Two years of cigarette burns and empty vodka bottles, depravity of no particular order, childish things done by two people with nothing better to do. We didn’t want to survive anything, waited and waited for what was to come; the supposed apocalypse was our idea of a festival. We could not wait for impending doom.
Two years before the world ended, we were throwing things against the walls, inanimate objects in a perfectly designed cesspool, beer cans and old toys, books with pages missing and shoes, all around, ready to be the next projectile. All this while entwined. All this while naked. All of this while bucking our hips together, not sure whether it was spurring us on, but sure that the best damn orgasm was coming. Fists against the floor, stamping feet, smirking, even grinning, never looking into each other’s eyes but loving every second. Our hatred of the world around us was expressed in the objects that hit the walls and shattered, or else ricocheted off into some forgotten corner. We may have cleared up afterwards.
Two years before the world ended, my final goal was complete.
A year before the world ended, I was nothing. In my eyes, I was nothing. In his eyes, he was nothing. To our so-called friends, we were bringing each other down; not hooked on drugs or anything particularly dangerous like that. Drinking ourselves to the verge of death every night, and then spending the days throwing things around the room while waiting for the best damn orgasm that was suddenly not so good anymore. He was bored of it. I wanted more from it. Grabbing too hard, hurting, biting, bleeding. Making me want to crawl away before slouching back into the room, ready to continue.
Six months before the world ended, I was angry.
Six months before the world ended, I wanted the end to come sooner. I wanted it now, not in six months; heat of the summer apocalypse, why could I not be granted this one last mercy? Winter … I did not want one last winter. I was ready. In the same room with the same person who made me happier than I had ever been in my life. Nobody else mattered. We were ready for it. They were not.
Five minutes before the world ended, we all sat in a circle. I could not tell if they wanted their mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, grandparents. One last goodbye should have been enough.
Four minutes before the world ended, somebody started coughing. I cannot remember who it was. I didn’t look up from the ground, sure that the end would come from below. Last breath they would ever take. Almost the last breath. Wasted.
Three minutes before the world ended, he squeezed my hand, and I wanted to spit at him. A gesture of love before the final breath? No. Not right. Not fair.
Two minutes before the world ended, I told him it was over.
One minute before the world ended, I counted down from sixty in my head.
Ten seconds before the world ended, I smiled and took one last breath.
Ten minutes after the world has ended, and nobody says a thing. Nobody can bear to look at each other, because the false hope and fear never should have existed. We cannot think of anything to say. One of our number gets to his feet, brushes off his clothing, turns his back and leaves. Another does the same. A third, a fourth, who comments that she’ll see us on Monday. Numbers five, six, seven, and eight until we’re the only ones left left. The two of us, not looking at each other, not telling, quiet lips and bruised arms trembling.
Fifteen minutes after the world has ended, he asks me if I meant it.
Sixteen minutes after the world has ended, I tell him I did.
Seventeen minutes after the world has ended, he brushes himself off and leaves.
Eighteen minutes after the world has ended, I begin to wonder about the last seven years of my life. Every single one has been wasted in one way or another. I cannot think of a single event during these years that has made me a better person. Eight years before the world ended, I was normal. Eight years before the world ended, I was happy.
Nineteen minutes after the world has ended, a new one begins.
