The Human Race

The flowers are melting in the Garden of Eden.

All that remains of the florid roses are the thorns, now lying astray amidst the ashes of what once was heavenly beauty. The birds have had their throats slit to never chirp their holy hymns. Right now, yesterday, and forevermore, all gone in hollow ruins.

Time is the soul survivor and it has won the game. Doors are closing, windows are shattering, the coldness has arrived in the form of shadows that kill florescence. Light moves, shivering, in fear of the shadows, as it takes little, tattering steps away from the man.

The man is unconscious, he does not understand what type of world is slowly curling up on him like the smoke of a cigarette coiling around him unknowingly. Silence remains. Opulence remains. Age remains. Destruction remains.

The man questions in simple awe what could be the reason behind such silence in a congested world. The hummingbird, in front of him, lays in the ground surrounded by some abnormal liquid. The man steps outside frightfully, gazing endlessly at the bird as if he had just murdered another man with the python in his hand, falling gracefully towards the ground.

He moves closer only to find the hummingbird, brownish and green in color, surrounded by a stream of screaming blood. The man is afraid, and steps right away from the hummingbird full of shame and blatant disgust. The ants, large and made of sinister, dark glass, start to rally towards the innocuous bird and slowly have their fingers in gruesome synchronization eat the bird out. The man stood there, analyzing into his head the brutal images he sees right in front of him. He understands that the ants are eating the hummingbird dry, he understands that he could have helped the bird, he understands that he could have made things better, but he does not understand why he is standing like stone, forcefully not creating any perturbations. Tears stream from his ultramarine, large eyes like the rain he had just seen, blended in melancholic, aesthetic color. He just watches the bird diverse into a head, a wing, and other pieces, and decides to leave.

The man enters his home, thinking it is all over. Light, he notices, still did not find its way into the hollowness to which he was surrounded with. The man suddenly feels a gruesome, hurting feeling in his body. He could feel tremendous heat slowly building and moving towards every minuscule area he has. His chest feels as if it had been wrapped by a viper trying to unleash its wrath on the man through its venomous liquid, and it is tightly coiling around his chest, moving his heart and bones from its place, breaking his bones, and have him feel nothingness.

The man drops to the ground. He was dying, and he knew it. He begins to scream in vein as loudly as he possibly could, but all that came out of his now destroyed vocal chords were faint whispers that not even someone or something an inch next to him would hear. He is barely breathing, and all that he could see is the bird. He remembers. He killed the bird. And now it was time for him to be killed as well.

He could feel dampness surrounding him, but he does not understand what on Earth it could possibly be. With a small twist of his almost unconscious head, his eyes are blinded by floridness. It was blood, the same screaming blood he had just seen and analyzed next to the bird. Fear within the man begins to destroys the forts of hope. Screaming, pain, screaming, more pain. He felt as if he had been tied forcefully to the ground and something or someone was not about to let him go anytime soon. "Death", he thinks finally, "is a funny man".

He could hear a sound so faint, but he is glad to hear something. After all, all that he did hear before was silence, and that was loud enough. It is the hummingbird, chirping. But it isn't just the chirping that the man could hear. He also hears a heartbeat slowly, faintly beating to death. Was it his or the birds? He couldn't tell.

He hears a gunshot. That one was his. Thoughts come into his head slowly untying any knots that shielded him from understanding. To the disgust and horror of himself, he finally comprehends. He comprehends that he had killed the hummingbird. It was his fault.

The python, he finds, is in his trembling hands, with a bullet loaded awaiting to be set free. The man points to himself, and he does not feel fear. He does not feel and he does not see. He is blinded. His fingers are slowly pushing the trigger and he is about to shoot himself.

He could hear the hummingbird singing. He could hear crying. He could hear screaming. He could hear himself faintly asking to end.

He pulls the trigger and he is dead, like the hummingbird he just saw.

Silence watches him tauntingly.

Right now, yesterday, and forevermore, all forgotten in hollow ruins. Time is the soul survivor and it has won the race.