The End

Erik Masters

That was the question he asked himself as he lay there, contemplating the bright stars, the cats, the all but non-existent pain.

Funny; I’m thinking in third person. This is my end; I’m merely waiting for death to claim me.

I suppose it’s only fitting that I start at my end—the end. After all, I always read the last page of the book before the first.

Was my life really this interesting? Did I actually earn a spot here, telling you about the end of my life? I’m only 19—life always seemed so close, it always seemed to go on, and that I wouldn’t die for a long time to come.

But now I am here, dying before I’ve lived two decades.

I wonder where I went wrong. Or did I go wrong at all? Could this be my destiny? My fate?

No, I know, I feel, that I did go wrong somewhere. Blackness never comes. The stars hammer into me, and I hold them off for a time with nothing but will.

But I can’t hold them off, and they grown harder, clouding my thoughts.

I no longer hold them off, and though I know my end is near, I do not despair.

I don’t want to die!

The emotions, confusing, conflicting, contradicting, stop, and I feel no more pain, hurt, sadness.

I only know that the end is near, coming...

...and here.