It’s been months now. I remember the day I woke up. A heavy fog had descended. The day began as any other might. I showered, brushed my teeth, the typical fare. I was alone in the house, but that wasn’t unusual. Then there was the moment I threw a passing glance into a space often overlooked. In our garage, there was a car. Actually, there were two cars. Which meant that my parents should have been home. Yet, they weren’t. This was odd, but I easily brushed it off. A moment that means little in a second but makes vast waves in hindsight. Like a pebble in water. I would experience many of these over the coming weeks. Nonetheless, I moved on and called a friend to make plans. It rang. Once. Twice. Thrice . . . Voicemail. Just like the cars, I could have ignored this as a matter of chance. But together, I began to suspect that something was amiss. Alas, rationality kicked in and quelled any chance I had at learning the truth early. People don’t just disappear, right?
I didn’t go out until the next day. I still didn’t understand the magnitude of my situation then. If I had, I would have prepared better. Eaten the most perishable first. But I drove to school, singing along to whatever futile song I liked then. Damn, I miss music. I didn’t see any cars on the road, and perhaps I would have noticed if I wasn’t so consumed by that cacophonous pleasure I now long for. Every moment could have been the moment I understood. But it wasn’t until I finally got to school that the pieces, all of them, fell into place. There wasn’t a single car in the parking lot. Or any parking lots. Or the road. Songs faded into one another as I called my friends, my family, anyone I knew. Each call the same. Once. Twice. Thrice . . . Voicemail. I called people in other states, other countries. I called 911. Once. Twice. Thrice . . . Voicemail. I tore down suburban streets at 100mph, begging for a cop, a human, anyone to pull me over. To show me they still exist. I went to the homes of anyone I knew. I broke windows, set off security alarms, all to find someone. But there was nobody. There is nobody. I fell to my knees and sobbed in an empty street when it struck me. I am the last person alive on this planet.
Where did they all go? I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. Does it even matter? The days continue to worsen and I’m always ridden with some cold or pain. I pushed through. It was miserable, but I ransacked supermarkets to stay alive. I shot and prepared animals with bullets and a gun I stole. I drove until I ran out of gas, and I filled the tank until I ran out of now-worthless money. Through the anguish, I remember all the times I took for granted. Every word, every game, every hug. Now they’re all gone.
I don’t know what to do anymore. It’s been months. How many . . . ? I’m not sure anymore. A mindset can only go so far, and I have to face reality. No food is left in this town, and I only have one bullet. I could use it to keep on with this miserable, lonely existence for another meal of wild game. Or I could end it. End the suffering. It’s funny, I used to be one of the biggest advocates for mental health in this community. I told people to take the small wins and that it would get better. But now I know that it will not get better. I am powerless to improve this life and no one is going to rescue me from it. This end is my last small win. I don’t care if there is a life after death anymore. I’m already living in hell. With trembling hands covered in dirt, I write a final note to nobody, then I put the bullet in and spin the chamber. I feel a wry smile creep across my face; one more game. A final spark of dopamine. That same dopamine I found in such abundance earlier, before it goes black. And so I shoot blanks until it happens. Once. Twice. Thrice . . . Liberation.
***
It had been a few months until I found him; a few months of scavenging what I could and surviving off of the bare minimum. Then I heard a gunshot, and went towards it. It wasn’t the hunter I hoped for. He looked to be about my age. He was a handsome boy. Perhaps we could have been good together, even before everyone else had seemingly dissolved. But that wound, that gaping hole in his skull, showed me not just his mind but my own. I instantly understood he experienced months of my same struggle. He was a mirror; in him I saw both my now-lonely life, and my inevitable end. If only either of us had known neither of us yet was the last.
