Desolation noir

Inside the bleak mind of a depressed, down and out, alcoholic, social reject, we get a glipse into an uneasy future, that an inevitable disaster is eminent. He is convinced he knows of what'll happen.

''Another rainy day in Lomont. Typical.'' I mutter to myself whilst warming my hands on a mug full of freshly ground Javan coffee. I stare out at the city from my cagey appartement. Raindrops streaking down in seemingly unquantifiable numbers. The gloomy streets are illuminated by the white and red of the cars lights and the yellow huw of the street lamps. Buildings so tall they hold up the heavy grey sky above. The inconspicuous notes of rain playing a tune of melancholia. Below, the wind blows an empty plastic bag along in its gust, waltzing through the air, effortlessly. The water droplets congregate on the exterior pane of the kitchen window, leaving an ever changing aquatic pattern. They migrate down the glass in seemingly confused paths, constantly being replaced by others, much like ourselves. People are forgotten about, washed away, replaced, just as the raindrops are. We bear just as little importance in the scheme of things. Just because we are aware of our existence doesn't make us irreplaceable. The arrogance of humanity. I sip my coffee. Delicious sour mud. I place the mug on the counter in the dingy kitchen and wipe my eyes.

It was nearing dawn, the constant buzz of the sleepless city life ambient as ever. I glance over to the shoddy clock. Quarter to five. I give it another hour and ten before it kicks in. Lomont City will be sure to go up like a box of matches, as will the other 57 major urban areas across the country. A flash of fiery hell will be the last thing anyone in a twenty five mile radius will see. And we will be the lucky ones. The chaos that will ensue afterwards for the survivors, well … I open the cupboard to my left and retrieve a bottle of scotch, it's nothing fancy, but it does the job. ''I might as well finish this off.'' I pour a good amount of it into my coffee and gulp it back. The oblivious citizens will be commuting to work stuck in traffic, on the buses or in the subway. I couldn't think of many worse places to spend my final moments on this miserable planet.

They swallowed the propaganda, the cities are no safer than anywhere else, no matter how many guards they have patrolling the streets, how impenetrable the city wall is or how infaillible the anti-air dome is, we are facing a threat greater than any other humanity has faced before. Nuclear annihilation. They got us right where they want us, piled on top of each other, like sitting ducks. Yet people seem more distant than ever. Everyone is in a rush. Always going somewhere, but never being anywhere, here, in the present. The future is overrated. Not that I care. People are just empty shells. It's like a colony of drones nowadays, even more so with the technological advancements of the past ten years. The advent of high bandwidth brain machine-interface implant tech (B-MIT for short), assimilating the wealthy with their beloved gadgets, widening ever more the inequality gap between the haves and the have nots in this darn nation.

Heck, I can't even remember the last real conversation I had. They choose to live like this, and for what? So they can go on to do this, or become that, to go here or there. That is why everyone consumes so much, they are addicts. Addicts to purchasing materialistic junk to fill a void, buying as much as they can in order to fit in. They're no different to me. If they knew the things I knew they would do the same. But I'm stigmatized for my addiction, yet society rewards theirs. Meanwhile life has flashed past. And before they have realised it, it's over. I wish I didn't have the vision. Nothing is worse than knowing what will happen and being unable to do anything about it. I take a glug of scotch straight from the bottle. What's the point? Besides, the end is a relief. Something I should have done a while back, but never had the guts to. I guess like a rain drop on the window, my seemingly confused path has led me here. Where I am today. This is how I choose to spend my last... hour and seven minutes alive.

I look down at the pedestrians on the pavement. They are all oblivious to what will happen. The inevitable. I see a faint figure sporting a black umbrella. They are walking a dog, a white English sheepdog. It's coat heavy with rain, tail wagging as it trots alongside its owner. Poor mutt. He never chose to move to this hellhole city to become some bigshot. The dog would probably be just as happy living under a bridge as it would at a country estate, as long as it has it's master's affection. People don't deserve the unconditional love a hound has for its master. I fear for the cats and dogs, helpless. They never chose to be domesticated. They were tied to humanity. Now they will perish with us, loyal as ever.

I look up and smile, thinking back of ole' Wolf, the farm dog. He was a mongrel, with a wavy brown coat and cream crest, his erect ears, the mischievous look he would have in his deep brown eyes, his long tail wagging madly. I remember the adventures we would go on running through the sun kissed corn fields on long summers evenings, chasing birds. He loved going swimming. Dogs never betray people. People betray people. My smile had migrated to a frown. I never cried more than the day I found him dead in the barn. My father beat me for showing emotion, the drunken b*****d. Just like he beat ole' Wolf, for urinating up his leg that one time. Good ole' Wolf. My best friend. Father got what he deserved in the end. ''Rot in hell you pathetic old coward.'' I take another swig. I hold the half empty bottle in my hand, at arms length from my face. ''You are my only friend now'' I say with a tongue-in-cheek tone, looking at the picture of an old Irish sea dog at the wheel of his ship on the whisky bottle's labelling.

I sit down at the table, light up a cigarette. I reminisce, look back at my life, this is the end credits after all. I might as well stop running from the past now, it's the future that will get me. My memories mostly filled with pain and regret. No wonder I suppress my emotions and drown my sorrows. Up until now that is. I try to think back to the last time I felt happy. It had to be some time before the event. It seems almost a lifetime ago now. Must have been when I was still with Shanaya. A sunny afternoon at the park, We were enjoying ice-cream on a quiet bench near an aviary of yellow canaries. She nudged my arm as I went to lick it, getting ice-cream on the tip of my nose. She giggled. I tossed the cone and chased after her and grabbed her hand, picking her up, holding her in my arms. We laughed. Then we kissed. Then we went back to her place and made passionate love. Her beautiful chocolate complexion, curves in all the right places like an aerodynamic sports car, her soft juicy lips, playful smile, dimples and green almond eyes. That was the last time we made love. I got a call from work and had to leave shortly after. It was probably for some irrelevant bullshit. Anything to spend a moment lying there next to her. I guzzle the whisky. I start to feel dizzy. The words 'I don't love you anymore. Goodbye' resonate in my mind. The last words Shanaya said to me.

I know civilization as we know it is about to collapse, and there's nothing I can do about it. No one I could tell would listen. No where I could go to save myself - not that I want to anymore. I couldn't leave, even now, no one can. Life will be insufferable anyway. It's inevitable. At first I tried, I really did. They just thought I was crazy. Screw them. But then, one kick in the teeth after another, I just had to get to accept it. Feeling Powerless. Feeling worthless. I am probably the only civilian in the country who knows. I even question my vision sometimes. But no. I know it was real, as real as the world is outside my window, as real as the smoke flowing from my cigarette, as real as the chair I'm sat on. Everything else I saw became real. Everything. It must be. It was like a trance. But no one wanted to hear, I just got mocked. I ended up losing everything that matters to me, and this is how I get repaid for fighting for my country. I stub my cigarette. I guess I can't really blame them for it, in all likelyhood I would have done the same in there position. It sounds crazy even to me whenever I say it outloud. Crazy, but real. I glance at the crappy clock. Typical. The second hand has got stuck, jilting between two dashes. I snicker to myself ''Of course''. Not like it would have changed anything. I drain the last drop of whisky into my mouth.

Seeing into the future ain't all it is cracked up to be.

Author's Note

the prompt for this story was to create a story about zsomeone feeling powerless. It's still quite raw still, but I like how it turned out