I wretched violently, leaning against the counter I had been using as cover. I could not control the panicked spasms that overtook my body. My sense of reality began to fold in upon itself, creating a box that separated me from the world outside. Now the screaming and gunfire and explosions were only background noise, muffled by the walls of my introspective prison. I leaned over and vomited upon the blood soaked floor. I had killed them. I had killed all of them. Dozens charged through that door. Now only pulp remained. Shards of broken armour laid across the floor, a giant puzzle left forgotten. My eyes rapidly danced over my masterpiece, rolling across the whole of the small, war-torn room. The tiny concrete space seemed to never end. Gore splattered the walls, bodies drawn into fetal positions laid over every centimeter. Limbs were discarded randomly about, torn stomachs spilled innards across the floor. So many were dead. How could I have done this? How could I have unflinchingly murdered so many? How could I have run away from my only home, to take on a life like this? How could I have destroyed that home, destroyed it along with every single one of my memories, and every tiny evidence of a life that I may have had before?
Tag Archives: scifi
It was November 12, 2077.
I still remember that sky. So blue, clear. There was a sheet of clouds shielding my view of the earth below. My last view of that earth. It was so green before. So clean and colorful, alive.
It was nearing noon. I remember looking at that sky, so casually. I took it for granted. I looked around myself, examining that sky, very briefly. Carelessly. I glanced at my radar, casually again. Three dots had suddenly appeared.
They were honing in on me. Fast.
A red light popped up on my cockpit dashboard.
MISSILE LOCKED Continue reading
It is 2 a.m. These printed words are the final testaments of my life. I walk down the street, and my feet have made up their mind. One block away is the catalyst of my masterpiece. The sidewalk will be my canvas.
For the past two years I have searched for the answer. The cure. The piece I never had. My parents, Mark and Anne, never inquired. They never saw past the grade card, past the sleeves of my jacket. There is no answer. Some of us are just meant to die, and history will not remember us.
But perhaps my masterpiece will be remembered, at least by some. Continue reading