3 Years Later

I've always envied people. The way they talk, the way they smile, fuck- even the way they carry on with their life. I've always hated it. It's as if the world was playing on a set time, loud laugh here, shitty joke there, and they all seem to just... Work in tune, like clockwork. It's a strange thing to see, walking down the street and calling out the ques for each spout of joy that came from complete strangers. It's funny yet sad.

Considering how I never seemed to fit with the rest of them.

I've made a habit of stumbling about. Awkwardly making my way through life and somehow making it this far. Even now, as I stare out my window, I despised everyone outside. They have freedom from this world.

I don't.

Then again, I was always told that being alive was the best possible outcome. Perhaps that that's not the case any more.

Waking up was just a repetitive routine I've come to loathe. The year old smell of dust that came from the pillows and cushions I laid on was suffocating. Yet it was the only home I've known for a while now, despite not owning a single thing.

Or at this rate, maybe I do? I've been living here for months anyway. Besides, It's not like the owner's gonna come back anyway.

I saw to that for sure.

"Stop."

My voice suddenly erupted from me. Groggy and foreign. My head already pounding as I groaned, trying to push myself from the makeshift bed beneath me. The pillows that I used as blankets fell off with a swing of my feet. Cracking my neck and feeling soreness pinprick my back from the awkward way I slept at night. Opting to focus on dragging my body over to the kitchen rather than the way my joints scream at me. With a sigh, a habit I seemed to have picked up over the years, I trudged across the studio apartment to where I kept the food.

Most of the cupboards were kept open. The few that were closed held my dwindling supply. This weird system of mine created to constantly give reminders of just how little food I have nowadays.

"Has it already been that long? Shit... Fuck!" I hissed as I came closer. Heading to the last closed cupboard and almost crying out in agony. The cans left were enough to count on one hand. Frustration coursing through me as I grabbed one slammed the door closed. The force causing the wood to tremble.

"Holy hell... I need to stock pile fast... I think," I mumbled as I absentmindedly sifted through the drawers and pulled out a can opener and a fork, "I think I can risk it... What day is it?"

With quick haste I walked over to the last window that I haven't boarded up yet. Next to it was a run down calendar from 3 years ago. There were rips and unknown stains but every date had marks on them. Grabbing onto the pencil that laid on the window sill, I looked out as I made a mark for today's date.

It was Monday. The 12th. The rain was heavy today.

My eyes narrowed as, for the first time that day, distinct groans met my ears.

There weren't many of them. Maybe a handful occupying the streets but they were there regardless. Reminding me of the fantasy that was my reality. I would've loved this exact scenario back before this all started. Foolishly thinking that maybe, for once, I'd be able to finally fit within the mechanism of a dying world.

Yet, as I stared out at the waves of wide mouths and outstretched hands, I know that I am more alone than ever.

I wonder now if it was better being a world where I was the only one dead amongst the living? Or the cruel reality of being the last one alive around the dead?