Without Him
The sounds of horns and shouting echoed up from the street below, muffled by the window. He stood with his forehead pressed against the glass, peering down at the street at a sharp angle. Some cars were mounting the sidewalk in a desperate attempt to circumvent the traffic, obstructing the fleeing pedestrians.
It’s useless, he thought solemnly.
He pulled away from the glass and, feeling his heart pounding in his chest, took a shaky breath to try and steady himself. He looked around at his apartment. His television in the middle of his living room stared back like a black mirror.
He had turned it off after hearing the news announcement. He couldn’t bear to listen to the forecast of his inevitable death. The missile was going to reach his city in about twenty minutes, they had said. No point in spending his last moments sitting on the couch.
Though, what should he do instead?
What could he do?
It felt like a ball of nervous energy was building up inside him, overwhelming his senses. His deepest instincts were screaming at him to flee, jumbling up his remaining thoughts, but he knew it was impossible. There wasn’t enough time.
Should he call his loved ones? He could reach more if he sent out a mass text message or email. What would he even say? “Well, looks like this is where I get off. See you on the other side, folks.”
He sputtered a single humorless laugh at the thought, though the small shred of levity was quickly lost in the swirling torment of emotions. There was rage, of course: hatred for the stupid countries and their senseless war that he now found himself caught in the middle of. Confusion, too, as he stood caught in indecision: so many possible actions to take, all equally inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.
But above all, there was sadness. The deepest sort of sadness for a life unfulfilled. He restlessly paced back and forth in his small apartment space and considered what he might have done differently.
They always say to take risks—to live each day like it’s your last. Useless advice. He lived the best he could, he thought. He lived realistically. What more could he have done? He got the most out of life that he could while planning for the best future.
And now he’d never get to see that future. It was silly, but his mind roved over the little things he would miss, and they struck him with a unique sort of pain. He’d never get to see the sequel to his favorite movie series. He’d never get to visit Bali like he had always dreamt.
He’d never get to see tomorrow’s sunrise.
“Stupid!” he screamed into his empty apartment. He kicked the trashcan beside him, leaving an indent and causing it to tumble across the tile. It’s not like he would need it anymore.
I don’t want to die, he thought. He wondered briefly if this was some holy retribution against him, but, thinking on the millions of others who would join him in death, he knew it was just the work of an indifferent universe.
Everyone died eventually. He just wished the little time he did have wasn’t cut short. Before he could do anything of any real significance. But then again, if he did have a full life, would he really have, anyway? Without any impetus, he would continue living in the same way he had been: safely.
But happily too.
Still. With death mere moments away, some part of him still wished he could impart some legacy—some mark on the world to elevate him from just another human lost in the sweeping sands of time.
He wouldn’t even get a name on any memorial. There were too many. Lost in a sea of tragedy, he was condemned to obscurity.
He looked at the clock above his stove. Twelve minutes left. His heart beat rapidly in response. Escape, his instincts urged him again, and his apartment suddenly felt very claustrophobic.
He briskly strode out his door. He took his keys out of his pocket to lock his door before he was hit by the futility of the gesture. In a sudden explosion of rage, he hurled them against the wall and strode toward the stairs.
He realized that that was the last time he would ever see his apartment.
Might as well enjoy the view from the roof one last time, he thought.
The heavy metal door creaked as he heaved it open, and he stumbled out onto the terrace. The sun blinded his eyes adjusted to the dark apartment. Squinting, he observed the roof was empty.
He noticed a lone man on the roof across the street. He was sitting on the edge with his legs dangling over the side. He had a case of beers beside him. Noticing him stepping out onto the roof, the man raised his bottle in grave salute before downing its contents.
There isn’t enough time to digest the alcohol and get drunk, he sadly observed. He didn’t bother correcting the man.
He walked over to the side of the roof and leaned over to look at the street. It seemed most people had given up their attempts at escape. The cars were parked in the middle of the street, doors open, with their drivers sitting on the curb beside other forlorn pedestrians. Some were hugging their fellow strangers. Many talking. All sobbing.
United in death. No one was running, now.
He took another deep, shuddering breath.
Suddenly, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. A call from his father. The realization that he never reached out to his parents overwhelmed him with guilt. Selfish.
He hastily answered the call. “Hello?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Oh, thank god,” his father gasped. “We thought—” He broke off into a fit of sobbing.
“We heard the news,” said a shaky female voice. His mother was there too. “We called as soon as we heard.”
“Are—” his father started between sobs. “How are you doing?”
Silence on the line, save for his parents’ crying. He was supposed to answer.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. Hearing his parents’ anguish elevated the sadness within his own maelstrom of emotions. His eyes stung, and he let the tears fall. “I don’t want to die,” he whispered.
His father’s sobs increased in intensity. “I love you,” he said.
“We love you,” his mother added. “Everyone loves you. Please know that.”
He began weeping. He repeated, “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Oh god, I don’t—” he cut himself off. He should put on a brave face for his parents, shouldn’t he? Stoic in the face of death? Make the loss easier for them?
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?” his father said, unrestrained. It probably came out harsher than intended.
“I… I don’t know. Everything. I never made it easy for you, when I was growing up. I never called enough. I didn’t thank you enough. I—”
“Shut up,” his mother spoke. “Shut up. Don’t be stupid. We love you. Always have. Always will.” The last part was a whisper.
“It’s not about the…” his father searched for the right words, sniffling. “About the individual actions. It’s the whole picture. The whole you. Nothing you’ve ever done could change that.”
“We’ll remember the best you,” his mother said softly, voice wavering.
He was silent, for a moment. He gazed across at the man with the beer. He seemed to be singing to himself, swaying slowly side to side with a few bottles beside him.
He spoke while sobbing, now. The words tumbled forward unevenly: “But that’s not me. I’m not perfect. If you simplify me like that, then…” He trailed off. He didn’t know what he was trying to say. “Remember the whole me.”
“I…” his father said. The sounds of his crying briefly faded on the line, as he paced their living room. The volume increased as he returned.
“Okay,” his mother got out. “I love you.”
“I love you,” his father added.
It wasn’t enough. He wanted some greater sympathy—some greater comprehension of him. No one knows someone quite like one knows themselves, and now his identity would be lost. For all it mattered.
He looked at the horizon. The sun shone lazily on the city, its beams glittering off windows to create a matrix of pinpoint light across the horizon. But it was average. A positively average day. And it would be the last image he ever saw.
His weeping increased in intensity. I don’t want to die, he thought again uselessly.
“Is there anything you want us to tell anyone? Your friends? Your cousins?”
He sighed, breath shaking. “This is it,” he said bitterly. “My last words. I should have something profound prepared.”
He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, the wisps of gentle breeze. The songs of birds mingled with the sounds of sobbing on the street.
“Billions have died already. I—” He was going to say he’s ready to join them. He couldn’t lie to himself. “I’m scared,” he admitted, weeping.
“Please,” his mother said. “Stay on the line until—”
Until the end.
He nodded, knowing they couldn’t see the gesture.
Everyone’s actions were useless, and everyone’s legacy temporary. Maybe, then, it was only the personal experience that mattered. One’s own intangible happiness in the time they had. He had lived a good life. Could he take some final comfort in that?
He looked at the view from the roof through teary eyes. It was an average day, but it was still beautiful.
No.
To accept death, even now, somehow felt like a betrayal of himself. He would resist his fate, no matter how futile.
“I don’t want to go,” he finally whispered into the receiver.
And the world went on without him.