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This is my LoST Entry. The theme of the blog is: Post Apocalyptic.
This week, I am against San the Panja.
His entry: The END
The poll: Vote Now! :)
For now though, just sit back on your comfiest of recliners with a jar of nutella safely at hand and divulge into a fiction based post-apocalyptic world.
A drop of blood percolated through my thick hairline, currently caked in months worth of dirt and grime. It’s in the time that you are closest to death that your mind is at its most active - it’s usually true what they say, what people report: you do think about everything, everyone, every place you’ve ever loved. But for me there was something else too.
This week, I am against San the Panja.
His entry: The END
The poll: Vote Now! :)
For now though, just sit back on your comfiest of recliners with a jar of nutella safely at hand and divulge into a fiction based post-apocalyptic world.
A drop of blood percolated through my thick hairline, currently caked in months worth of dirt and grime. It’s in the time that you are closest to death that your mind is at its most active - it’s usually true what they say, what people report: you do think about everything, everyone, every place you’ve ever loved. But for me there was something else too.
The blood had just curved over the slight lip at my eyebrow. How did you get here, in this position? Huh? You were one of the strongest in the group. Now look at yourself. Now look what you’ve done. You’re standing at the bottom of the crater, by yourself. Alone. There is no one left who loves you. You’re gone. Now Olivia’s going to die. And little Sam. No-one to protect them from the Klangs. You pathetic cretin.
I tried to push the thoughts out of my head, to no avail; the voice started up again, Remember little Ginny? She was my neighbour, and in the first few weeks when the world’s shit hit the metaphorical fan, she broke down - screaming, crying, lashing out. It’s safe to say I didn’t blame her - she was only fourteen bless her, but in this new world, one moment of weakness kills you. You just can’t afford it. The blood trickled around my eye and slithered across my cheek, as if mirroring a tear at the thought. Still the voice continued.
Your mum, dead.
Your dad, gone.
Your brother, dead.
Your friends, gone.
It was as if someone was singing a song in my head, some kind of limerick - taunting me as I died. I knew what was coming next. The voice said her name with palatable vindication.
Jeanine … dead.
I clenched my fists. That was a mistake - the energy it took was torturing.
You didn’t save them. A chuckle. Who am I kidding? You couldn’t even save yourself.
The blood had sloped all the way down my face and jumped to my chest leaving a velvety red stain as it travelled. My breath hitched, as if affirming that it was going to be my last ever.
If it wasn’t for your little “wannabe” scientist stunt in the University, perhaps you wouldn’t be in this mess. I tried to retort back with words but only a low rasping sound managed to escape my lips. I knew the voice was just toying with me, having his fun in my last few moments. But annoyingly, I also knew that he was speaking partial truth. A truth I couldn’t face up to at this point. I desperately tried to push him from my head, every thought now causing a pain to impulse through my body.
You can’t get rid of me that easily, mate. I’m your conscience.
The blood splashed on to the dirt, staining it like the voice had done to my thoughts. Seconds later my body followed with a definite impact upon collision. With that the voice was gone, and from that day onwards I never heard it again. I thought of my loved ones: my friends, my family, and the comparative peace of their presence coerced my body into darkness.
A darkness I would never escape from again. A slumber like I’ve never known before. Resistance was futile: everything manages to come back.
And they’d find me in a week, when the weather gets hot. After the insects have made their claim, after the foxes have known our taste, I’ll be home with you, I’ll be home with you.
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