It was dark, and I was lying on the floor. At least, that’s how it felt. Iwas isolated; everybody was gone, and I was the last one alive. I kept thinking, ‘If only at least one other person had survived, I wouldn’t have toresort to this.’ Resort to what? I couldn’t take care of myself all alone in theentire world. I had to do something. Ouch, what was hurting my arm somuch? A bright light suddenly arrived in the distance. The sun, I reminded myself. How could something so brilliant and hopeful still rise after all of this?I could see it all now—the true isolation, the thing hurting my arm, and what Iwould have to do. Something so powerful had almost completely wiped out the entire human race; I was the one exception to that. I was just barely theexception, though. My arm was severed, blood dripping slowly from it, ontothe ground, pooling around me. It wouldn’t be enough to completely kill me,however, and the pain was now too much to withstand. A knife was plunged into the ground a few mere feet away from my body. I edged myself over toit, grasped it in my hands, and knew that this was truly the end. I raised it into the air, barely whispering, “Goodbye.”
I woke up to an alarm clock, quickly finding the snooze button. I hadbeen dreaming again. Dreams such as that always happened, and I hadgrown used to them, even starting to enjoy the idea of what alwayshappened; my own death. As a child, my mother—after hearing about thosedreams—had always told me that I had visions, and that I could see the endof the world. Nobody ever believed my mother about things like that, though,so I didn’t pay much thought to it at the time. I didn’t have my mother’sguidance now, as a teenager, and I didn’t have my father’s. My mother,Rosalind Dahlia Stevens, had been murdered when I was only about sevenyears old. I had witnessed it before my very own eyes, and nothing wouldever make me forget about it. Things like death can’t just be erased fromsomeone’s memory. My father, on the other hand, had left us only a fewmonths after I was born, leaving my mother and my older sister, Arobella, totake care of me. Arobella was about 17 years old when our mother had beenmurdered, and she took care of me for about 5 years before she committedsuicide. I suppose that she had just decided she had been put throughenough for one lifetime, and she hung herself. I had witnessed that as well. Ihad seen death much too frequently for myself, but I had been stronger thanmy sister. I had been able to survive on my own ever since then.I arose from my bed, carefully tiptoeing across my room, trying not tobreak the silence, even though there was no need to worry of that. It wasSaturday, and the time was 7:45 AM. I always woke up somewhat early; it justfelt like there was finally enough time when I awakened earlier. Walkingthrough the hallway, I looked over to briefly study an old family photo of mymother, sister, and myself. I sighed, wishing it could be that way now. “I can’thang on to that any longer,” I said, obviously talking to myself, which I didquite frequently in all of the loneliness. “It can never be the same way as itwas when I was a child, and that’s not going to change any time soon.”Dropping the matter for the time being, I continued through the hallway, anddown the stairwell to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I looked over thepossible breakfast choices before deciding to have cereal instead. I took outthe milk carton, now halfway empty, got a bowl, and prepared my breakfast. I
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