What Would You Do If You Were The Last Person Alive? Response
I don't know if @TessStevens wanted this to be a writing prompt or not but...I took it as one anyway! Check out her card and response here!
What would you do if you were the last person on earth?
It's 3PM and I jolt awake, wondering why no one has called to wake me up. I get out of bed and the creak sounds like a gun shot agains the silence. Standing still I realize that it is a silence I have never heard before. No cars are moving, no sires wailing, no laughing in the distance. I hear birds sure, but nothing more.
I walk down stairs, each creak echoing in the silence that seems to envelope the entire world. I peak out the window, afraid of what I might see. Cars are parked, still running in the middle of the road. Shopping bags are strewn across the floor and the mail carriers cart, illegal to touch, is sitting by itself, ready for the taking. I take a peak inside.
I flick on the news and see nothing, cameras pointing at empty seats for hours recording nothing until their batteries run out. My Dad's book is open to his page and Mom's gardening sheers are laying in the dirt. The only thing left of Nick is the imprint of his body on the bed.
I make a drink, and then another, eat the half of sandwich next to Dads book and wait just a little longer. The silence stretches on.
I grab the bottle and the car keys, gun the car out of the driveway and speed away, driving with the care free of being the only car (moving) on the road. I know where to go.
I make a quick stop at the liquor store and grab what I need. That big bottle that always looked so good but was always to expensive, I take them all. Then I am back in the drivers seat going to the only place I want to spend my days.
Waking into the Barnes and Nobel doors I hear the whispers of people speaking that I haven't heard in an entire day. Each title calling out to me to choose it. I set up in the middle of the store; pillow, blanket, flash light and bottles surround my fortress. Then I head to the shelves.
My fingers glide along the spines, feeling my quiver as I go over names I will never get to read. I pick out Jodi Picoult, Ken Follett, and Dan Brown starting with the one Nick has been begging me to read.
I bring them back, making a wall of memories that whisper to me from my parents and Nicks favorite books.
I lay back, open the bottle and take a swing. I crack open my first book and wonder silently (because silence is all there is now), if my body too will disappear or will it be trapped here rotting, separated forever from everyone that I love.
I take another swing and begin at page one.