DRY

I am alone now, waiting—or maybe afraid of the world outside. Some are taking risk, but others are just insane. But still, there can be no survivors under the ball of fire.

I'm the last of my bloodline; the others are all dead now. I was grateful I didn't try what they did. Not even a single idea of it; not even for once. For days, I've concealed myself in the arms of darkness like a skitty little cat mewling because of the storm.

Here I am, still breathing, looking pristine, and surviving. The danger is in the light—unquiet, always having the voice to allure victims. That's how the world becomes the most cruel. It's the home of humankind before, but now it destroys.

I pause for a moment, letting the cry of a bird fill the air. I am frightened it will not last long. Afterwards, it happens. The bird vanishes, and it is predictable. This always happens—whatever form of life that escapes darkness will be gone because of the evil light.

I don't notice that my tears begin to fall. I wonder if this is because of a sudden rush of depression. Maybe I am right—maybe this is the burden of surviving alone.

I stroke my cheeks and I try to think logically. What is the advantage of all of this? What is the purpose of standing here, arguing with myself about being the most fortunate? I look at the corners of this place I so called home. And it comes to my mind, I am talking to myself because no one will.

My breaths become heavy, laborious. I am now uncertain of what should I become or do. I admit, I am not so good in weighing things. Contemplating for my welfare is always my failure.

Surviving is good, but living alone doesn't make it better. I convince myself that this is not suicide. That bravery is the key for me to find out.

I build my courage as I open the door. I walk silently, slowly with my fists clenched. I go directly under the sun, like it's happy to see me, telling me everything's alright. The size of the sun is not my concern anymore, although it is visible that it grew larger.

As I close my eyes, tiny little tears shed at the corners. I extend my arms, feeling the wind, its heat like a burning candle in my flesh.

I open my eyes and witness how water leaves my skin, making my skin arid. Slowly but tragically, I draw my last breath, and I am reduced to ashes. But it doesn't end like that, my ashes are pulverized like fine speck of dusts until I am invisible to the eye.

A while ago, I have warned you. This is what happens—to dry is to die, no water means no life. This is 2019, and I am you.