Some days the rising sun brings with it the inescapable dread of another day of mere survival. This morning, though, with its crimson slashes of red across a violent sky, I greet with the sincerest of smiles. Today, of course, is the day I finally kill myself.
Like the best of things, my death must be met with decorum. I rise, shower, make the bed I haven't shared with anyone in nearly a decade. With the time I usually dedicate to rummaging for breakfast in the metropolitan rubble, I enjoy a wrapped coffee cake I have been saving for the occasion. Then I arm myself with the spear and machete - the last of my weapons - and make my way towards the tower.
It's been there for years, staring down at the meager existence I've managed to scrape together from the ashes of a fallen civilization. I don't know when it first occurred to me that the fallen precipice, still much taller than the collapsed piles of concrete and fluorescent tubing, would be the most fitting memorial I could hope to find. I suppose I must have always suspected, ever since I first set eyes on the structure five years ago, that this would be the place I met my end.
It won't be that bad, after I'm gone. There's nobody left around here anyway. I would have seen them by now. I've been looking.
I enter the lobby, surprisingly still intact after everything, although the marble floor and countertops are sprinkled with ash. Curiosity compels me, and I press the call button on the elevator. Of course it doesn't work, and so I take the stairs, whistling to myself as I walk. I don't remember the name of the tune anymore. It's a jaunty melody, something about being in love.
From the stairwell I enter a decimated boardroom or cafeteria. I can't tell which. The building used to be much taller, but the catastrophe sheared the remaining stories away. Now there's just me, a good ten floors above the ground, ready to leap to my death.
Except there's still another story to be seen. There, in the corner, the converging walls still hold up a bit of the ceiling that separated this room from the floor above. The stairs are gone, but if I can just cling to the exterior wall, I might be able to climb up. I, thinking I had nothing better to do with my day, made the effort, and succeeded in reaching the eleventh story after only a few minor falls.
Thunder cracks. There's a storm coming. I let the wind whip past me and breathe deeply the first clean air I've tasted in a while. I look up to the sky and prepare to drop off. One foot hangs over the edge, and I am ready.
But then, there's that voice again. Jubilant, shrill, and blasphemously alive. Somewhere, out in the dilapidated jungle of ashes, I can hear a child playing.
I scream at the voice. I demand it to be quiet. Another blast of thunder, and the voice is gone. I prepare myself again to jump, but I've quite lost my momentum. The first few drops of rain splash on my face. I jump back down to the story below, throwing my weapons down, and I curl up again in the corner.
Beneath the ledge where I had hoped to jump to my death, I wait the rain out. I plan. When it ends, I will reclaim my weapons and move back through the city streets, to forage again in the cryptic shops and kiosks. Then I will sleep again, and in my dreams I will hear the tragic laughter of children dancing through the end of the world.
I've been on a pretty morbid streak recently. Got a few projects about death coming round. Here's one of them.
There's not too much I want to mention about this project, except that the illustration is actually digital. I drew it in the Procreate app, rather than using pen and paper, even though it reflects my usual black and white aesthetic. In some ways, I actually liked using the app more than the pen - the ability to undo mistakes is a delight. Still, I feel like a pen gives me a bit more precision when I work, so I'm not ready to dive fully into the digital age yet.
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