The House at the End

 As I wander down the pebbled road, toying with a stick in my hand, I ponder my days of youth in the house at the end. The house, as I remember, is a beautiful white that never seemed to turn yellow and grey from the sun beating on it and its beautiful ruby shudders day after day. Today is not one of those days. The sky is filled with the ashes from the world. The trees, no longer filled with the morning doves, are bare and darker than ever, blending with the ruins of the sky. The grass--no longer the long lush chartreuse that it used to be--is nothing but the dirt humanity has put upon it.

Adjusting the plague on my face that is now the only source of living I ever depend on, I finally reach the beautiful house, but it is no longer such. It is darkened by the ashes of the sky, the beautiful face now driven mad by the poison rain steadily dripping on the roof. The, once ruby-colored, shutters on the ground like they have given up all hope that the sun will come back to help them shine once again. It wishes to not linger in this misery furthermore, and I wish the same.

I look down at the stick I still toy with. My mind beckons me to use it, but I mustn't yet. I step onto the porch, careful of where I step, lest the holes swallow me into the basement. The crooked red door--matching the depressed shutters--blocks my path; I carefully pry it open and walk inside to find the horrors I had hoped were not true.

The second story had fallen to the ground, the bed I used to sleep in teetering, threatening to fall on my head. I feel drops of the poison rain, dripping through the holes in the ceiling, steaming off of my skin, but I don't care. I find a tiny hill of splintered wood left from the roof and second floor and climb to the top of it. I look down at the red end of my stick; it is time. Grabbing its former home from my pocket, I put the stick up to the side of it and slash it against the side of the box. Nothing happens, so I do it again. Again, again, again; I do it until I see sparks and, eventually, the flame. The flame is warm against the little skin I have exposed.

I drop the match and drown in the warmth of its hungry endeavor. I take the plague off of my face breathing in a new substance for the first time in years. I smile knowing the state of the world will no longer be on my conscience. I smile, knowing that I get to be free from the death and misery humanity has brought upon the world. 

Nobody knows of this house at the end, though it's not much of an accomplishment. Nobody knows of happiness in this world, either, but I do. I now know happiness because it is here within the warmth that burns me with its touch, and as I take my last breathable breath, I smile. I have chased this feeling, like many others, for as long as the shambles of the world have been chasing us, and I won.