The Cockroach

The streets are empty, and I am finally living the life I have always wanted to live. No one is here, in this beautiful city that they have built, except for me, on my own two feet, disappearing between buildings. It’s eerie, isn’t it, all the people with their faces pasted against the glass, peering out, at me, like I might be some kind of savior or rebel or demon for daring to be outside today.

I love it like this. The panic is palpable. I can see it in their faces, and it brings so much glee. To see all of us, teetering on the verge of something big yet so painfully inscrutable. Is there doom just around the corner? Or will we be punished with more of the same? Either way, it is excruciating, and sleep so soundly at night knowing that somewhere, someone is screaming. We are being faced with the flaws of this monstrosity we have built, and it is killing some of us. The only question is: is it killing the right people? Or, is it killing enough people?

I scutter around like a scion of death, unabashed by the sickness or its consequences because standing in the center of something that is collapsing in upon itself is a more exhilarating feeling than anything else I have ever felt before. Not because it will kill me, but because I will survive it, like a cockroach, as a beast in some other form. I am okay with being ugly in the world in whatever form it takes after all of this is over because I am okay with being ugly now. But there is no thrill in immortality when the world is a horrible place. All I can do is be horrible in it.

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