Last Day On Earth

3

The last twenty-four hours, I wish had been a dream, but instead they were a realistic blur of my day, tragic and confusing. Less than ten hours ago I was fast asleep with a quilt drawn across my drunken body, soft snores puffing from my dry lips. The man that burst through my window barely fifteen minutes ago had now edged towards my parents room after the worried glances I directed towards the door. His face told me everything, that he knew what was going on.

Warily, he gave me a nod. "Can I go in?" He asked. "I'd like to see." I made no attempt to answer him, so he took it upon himself to witness what I had prior to his entrance. He noticed the way I turned violently, facing away from the door. I didn't want to see it again, at least not in reality. The images would live within me until my very last breath, replaying in the night, keeping me awake for hours upon hours, until one day, I won't be able to take it.

Slowly, he stepped through their door.

The quiet gasp that left his lips from behind the wood didn't surprise me. I could hear his footsteps, and I knew exactly where he was stood. For a moment, there was no movement. I presumed his was standing over them, looking at the mess. I pushed the door a little more, peering my head around it for the second time that day. He was watching them, scanning over the incident, placing a hand over his chest in sorrow.

He looked at me. "These are your parents," he established. "I'm so sorry."

"What's going on?" I asked, making no attempt to accept his sympathy. I wanted to, but not as much as I wanted answers. For a while he didn't say anything. What could you say to a girl who's parents have killed themselves?

"I don't know."

"You seemed to know before you walked in." I said.

"That was before." he raised his voice, growing impatient with the subtle accusations I was forcing upon him. Then something passed over him, his eyes flickering with something. They met mine. "You don't know what's going on, do you?" I shook my head. He left the room, but not before taking a glance at the crevice in the ground I hadn't bothered to conceal, which he pointed out I should do. He sat himself on the floor, settling up against the wall in the corridor. All I did was watch him.

"I have something to tell you, and you're going to want to sit down."

"I'm fine," I assured him, although I wasn't sure myself. "Tell me what happened."

He took a lengthy pause, and I let him, knowing how difficult he was finding this to explain. He breathed out through his pink tinted lips, and ran a hand through his greasy, long strands of brunette hair. His eyes were dark with only a glimmer of yellow and hazel tones running through like banners whipped around by a ballet dancer. Around that, the bruise on his left eye was yellowing, deepening the tones of mustard, the blue hue in the throbbing wound lining the crease of his eyelid, then around his bags. He hadn't been sleeping. He rested his hands on his knees, slowly rubbing his black jeans, which were noticeably hugging, and I wondered how he got around in them. They looked a little short, his ankles bearing the cold, and his shoes were a pair of scuffed blue converses. His shirt was a deep grass green tone, adorning only a black logo of the band Def Leppard, and I wondered where he found such a piece of merchandise - one I would have treasured. He looked up at me, with a slither of worry dripping into his expression.

"What is it?" I asked.

He sighed. "Look, I don't know who you are, I've never even met you in my life. You look like a twelve year old wh-"

"I'm nineteen!" I interrupted, offended by his rude assumption, but he made no attempt to correct himself.

"-who can barely defend herself with a bloody rocket launcher, let alone a shitty old hand gun from the nineteen-sixty's passed on - presumably by her suicidal parents! So why do you think I'll tell you what's happening? You won't last a minute out there." I clenched my jaw. In the last five minutes I've learnt four things about him. One, he has some kind of knowledge about what's happening outside. Two, he doesn't seem to want me to know exactly what that is. Three, he's a rude asshole who deserves another black eyes, and last but not least, he needs to learn how to get dressed properly. I kept that little list to myself, screaming impossibly selfish things about him in my head whilst I conjured up a reasonable response. I couldn't find one. He mocked my age, the way I looked and how I handled myself, not to mention the absolutely revolting way he referred to my parents. I hate him, and I don't even know him.