Thanks for the fucking happy ending

Thanks for fucking being there for me

I grew up in the city. It was never quiet, never hard to get anything. My parents met each other like a normal couple. In his free time, my dad was always in the library, trying to study with a friend, and my mom worked in a diner that belonged to her parents. They had known each other since first grade. After some time, they went their separate ways but reconnected in high school, where my dad helped her study. They weren't exceptional students, just normal ones. They got together, but it wasn't public; only their friends knew. Then he proposed, they married, and then I came along. We lived in an apartment and had everything we needed, and life went on.

Oh, I forgot to mention—my world is different. That's why I handled the antimatter experiments so calmly. They thought they had everything under control. At first, they did. But then everything collapsed. About 86% of life was killed or mutated, surviving only in the rotten areas. Luckily, the experiment was on the other side of the world. Everyone who survived tried to move toward central areas, away from the rot. Fortunately, a cure for the toxic chemicals was found, and everyone who thought they were infected wanted to get cured. I didn't believe in that bullshit, but my parents did. Long story short, the cure was toxic. From the 14% of remaining humanity, 6% tried to cure themselves and died. It was the only hope people had left. Then the whole system collapsed.

My mom left us without warning, taking everything. The next day, my dad and I were shocked. I couldn't react, and neither could he. I went to bed because I was tired after a whole day of screaming, crying, and thinking about how messed up everything was. I fell into bed but couldn't sleep. Everything was so loud in my head; it was just too much. A little later that night, I heard something strange. I can't describe it, but I was scared—overwhelmed. Then I saw my dad. I can't even describe what happened—I was too shocked, too shocked to register anything. I just saw my dad. He was hanging from the ceiling.

It smelled like something was burning. I panicked and searched for a fire. I saw that my dad's fingertips were burned, a lighter lay on the ground, and there were three pictures beside it. I recognized two of them. One was of my whole family at my parents' wedding. The other was of my parents and me when I was born. But the third picture—I couldn't quite make it out. I could barely see three figures. I think it was my dad and a woman, but it definitely wasn't my mom. And the third person seemed familiar, but I couldn't remember who it was.

I picked up the picture and screamed at my dad. I can't even remember what I said because I was pushing everything away. I had so many questions. I screamed all of them at him—why he left me, who those people were. I punched myself, thinking everything was my fault. I screamed for what felt like five days, though I had no idea how long it really was. I didn't care. I don't even remember when I stopped crying.

Eventually, I woke up. I didn't know what time it was, but I packed my things—any food that hadn't rotted and the pictures. I don't know why I took them, but I did. I gathered all the remaining things and put them in my parents' room, where I laid my dad. I think it took me three days to move him. Half a day to cut the rope, another half day spent vomiting and talking to him as if he were still alive. On the third day, I vomited seven times just trying to get him into bed. Then I collapsed, having not eaten in so long I couldn't even remember. I tried to eat because I knew I had to keep going. It's what everyone expected of me, everyone who wasn't alive anymore. It felt like I had to fulfill their dreams, even though I couldn't. It was too much of a burden, but I did it. I swallowed the food, washed it down with water, held my nose and my mouth to force it down. At first, it didn't work, but after vomiting four times, it finally stayed in my body.

Everything felt like a dream. Then something snapped inside me, like a string breaking. My feelings just stopped. I went to bed, barely slept, but still—slept. On the last day, I managed to put my dad in his bed. I still don't know why. Maybe because he was always there with my mom, or maybe because I wanted to pretend he was just sleeping. Pretend that he hadn't taken his life. Pretend everything was normal, even though it wasn't.

I took everything I needed, left the rest with my dad. I kept three gallons of gasolin in my backpack and poured the rest over my dad's body. I poured more into the other room, where I could still see him. I took a family picture of my mom, my dad, and me. I picked up the lighter my dad had used to burn the pictures. I turned it on and stared into the flame, fascinated. Slowly, I brought the photo closer to the flame, still mesmerized. Then the picture caught fire. I watched it burn, holding it as long as I could.

In that moment, I understood my father. I felt the heat, but I didn't care if I got burned. I let the picture fall, still in a trance. Suddenly, a trail of fire ignited. The next thing I remember, I had set my father on fire. My hands were shaking, but I wasn't cold. I didn't feel anything. I watched him burn for a while. When the ceiling started to catch fire, I left, taking only what I needed. I looked back,screaming:'' thanks for fucking being there for me you fucking assholes". I didn't care how many people would die in that building. I just walked away. With nothing left to lose.