He stared at his bloody hands. His own brother, strangled to death by him. He looked around. Bodies. Bodies everywhere. Fat Thin Misshapen Bloody And broken arms were torn off and eyes were gouged heads were broken noses torn off chests blown into tiny pieces he felt his heart pounding nobody was alive after the war everyone had eventually died. a shudder. he was the last man alive. as he gazed amongst the piles of skin and limbs he realised something all of this civilisation all of this goddamn advancement the technology the sociology the languages the religions the philosophy the sciences all of it a fucking waste
what good was it now? He knew of the process of diffusion, osmosis, the complete works of
shakespeare, the amount of degrees in a triangle, the names of the Brontë sisters The internet Television E=MCsquared but what is it worth now? Nothing When you have nobody to talk to about it, knowledge is worthless warm charcoal pulsated against his blood red feet He saw the fiery wall in the distance power was nothing now the dollar was once again a piece of paper the guitar a piece of wood and strings books just ink and paper humans just flesh and bone
there comes a time when death no longer is a tragedy it is merely a statistic billions of people murdering each other that isn't a tradegy some people say once you kill a thousand you've killed them all some people say one hundred some people say ten but you know what I say? I say one. Once you've truly looked into somebodies eyes while stabbing them their eyes piercing through your soul then you've killed every human to have ever lived
no longer will he feel the warmth of human touch no longer will he be hugged kissed
perhaps it was for the better? perhaps we were doomed to do this anyway nobody deserved life he heard a lightning bolt and rain started to pour down this time the rain pierced the skin it melted and singed the rags he wore his hands were more bloody before he found a barrel and ran inside it inside it was marked H20 He vaguely recognised it
the coal soon became an unbearable sludge of toxicity piles of people drifted down he thought he might as well live with nature he tore off his clothes threw them into the ever-changing river now he was one again now he could pretend to be a tree or the last species of bird or a planet or a star or me or a human again but these faces he had in his head melted he no longer remembered his mothers' face or his brothers or his mothers all he could see now was black charcoal and all he could feel was the cold hard metal against his back
the last person should he have a legacy a remaining feature? he thought. was there something he should say or do as a human? to let people know? who was there too know? he was the last goddamn person on this planet he laughed tears ran down his face he stood up outside as the toxic sludge burnt through layers of his skin
he pulled out a rusty knife left inside his belt was human communication that necessary? could he live without them? I guess he'd never know
he raised the knife and pressed it against his skin slowly pushing it deeper in then he slid it in to his neck he gasped and then a warm tingling feeling rose on his neck he felt warmth for a brief moment he saw the sun shine again then pain seared he collapsed in agony screaming screaming for somebody to hear him anybody but there was no answer out of breath he said one last thing "why." "why the fuck did we do this to ourselves?" "humans had so much to learn and then." "and now" "we're nothing."