The depth of short stories and micro-fiction 2

Don't Look Back: A letter to my past

The Wind howled outside, a relentless, mournful cry against the rusted metal walls, of the makeshift shelter. Inside, a flickering oil lamp cast dancing shadows on the weathered face of Elias, his brow furrowed in concentration as he painstakingly etched words onto a piece of salvaged parchment. He dipped the crude quill into the inkwell, a repurposed bottle with a rusty nail hammered into its lid. It had taken him weeks to track down the materials, weeks of scavenging in the desolate ruins of what was once a thriving city.

He was writing to his past self, to the Elias who lived a life of comfort and ignorance, a life that no longer existed. The world had crumbled, turned into a desolate wasteland scarred by fire and ash. He longed to warn his younger self, to shield him from the horrors he had witnessed, but knew it was a futile exercise. Time was a relentless river, and he was trapped on its unforgiving tide.

The letter began with a simple greeting, one that felt alien in the context of his current reality.

"Dearest Elias," he wrote, his hand trembling slightly. "This message will find you on a day that seems peaceful, a day you take for granted. A day when you are still surrounded by the warmth of love and the comfort of belonging. I envy you, Elias. I envy your ignorance."

He paused, the weight of his words pressing down on him. The world outside was a harsh reminder of the fragility of life, the constant threat of hunger, disease, and violence. The sun was a harsh, unforgiving eye in the perpetually gray sky, and the wind carried the stench of decay and despair.

"I am writing to you from a future you won't believe. A future where the sun barely touches the earth, where the air is thick with smoke and ash. A future where humans are shadows of their former selves, consumed by fear and desperation."

He described the horrors he had seen, the once majestic cities reduced to crumbling skeletons, the vacant eyes of the survivors reflecting the emptiness within, the constant struggle for survival. He wrote of the mutated creatures that roamed the desolate lands, the remnants of a once-great civilization corrupted by the cataclysmic event.

"There will be a day," he wrote, his voice rasping with the agony of his memories, "a day when the sky will turn crimson and the earth will tremble beneath your feet. A day when the very air you breathe will poison you. A day when the darkness you think you know will be swallowed by an even deeper, more terrifying darkness."

He described the events that led to the downfall, the warnings ignored, the arrogance that led to the destruction. He recounted the stories he gleaned from survivors, their tales of a virus spreading like wildfire, a virus that had taken hold of the very fabric of life, twisting it into something monstrous. He wrote of the desperation, the scramble for survival, the loss of loved ones, the descent into savagery.

"You are not alone, Elias. There will be others who will try to warn you, others who will see the signs. But they will be dismissed, their words twisted. The masses will cling to their comfort, their ignorance. The world will continue on its path, blind to the darkness looming ahead."

He knew that the world he described was unimaginable to his past self. He knew that the horrors he had witnessed, the loss he had endured, would be dismissed as the ramblings of a madman. Yet, he continued to write, driven by a desperate hope that somehow, somewhere, his words would reach their intended recipient.

"This is your warning, Elias. This is what you should fear. This is the future that awaits you. Be prepared."

He signed the letter with a shaky hand, his name barely recognizable in the faded ink. He rolled the parchment and tied it with a piece of scavenged string, a final attempt to preserve it against the harsh elements.

He looked at the letter, a silent testament to his shattered world. He had nothing left to offer his past self except this warning, this desperate plea for him to understand the consequences of his actions.

"May you be spared," he whispered to the empty room, his voice filled with the weight of his own sorrow. "May you be spared the darkness that awaits."

He stepped outside, the cold wind whipping at his face. He looked at the desolate landscape, a silent reminder of what once was. In the distance, a lone crow cawed, a sound echoed by the emptiness within him. He knew that his words would likely be lost to time, forgotten by the world he once knew. But that didn't diminish the hope that perhaps, somewhere, someone might read his message, might learn from his pain, and maybe, just maybe, a different future might be possible.