I Am God
Contains naughty language.
A brief look into the mind of a mad apocalypse survivor. Is he, as he claims to be, the God of the unholy mutated beings he once called friends? Or is he in reality just as demented as they are?
You be the judge.
Got bored and it's been a while since I wrote anything.
I still don't understand people.
Even after the apocalypse, they still tried to hold onto what little bits of their old lives that they can. It's funny, really. How people persevered in maintaining friendships and tried to survive together, even though the very act of friendliness towards another person was destined to bring them down. One day, one of them was going to be hungry and they wouldn't have food. One day, the hungry one would want something the other one had. And on that day, someone would die.
It's just the way of things.
When society crumbles, there are no rules or laws. It's not even anarchy. It's a twisted monarchy, where thirst and hunger reign as cruel king and queen, mercilessly punishing any who refuse their goddamned divine right to rule. What were once rights to every soul are now memories, the ideal world of conversation, friendship, and peace is gone. But no, they try, they try, mother fuck do they try.
After that Day, I'd immediately decided on staying right here. Why leave a place that had everything I needed? But that wasn't their view. 'Maybe there are other survivors,' they said. 'Maybe we can regroup and rebuild. Maybe we can start again.'
I couldn't help but laugh.
I laughed at them when they asked me to come with them. I laughed when they thought they'd be able to leave. I still fucking laugh today, by myself, with all I could ever want to eat, all the ammunition I could ever shoot, and enough books for me to drown out their screams with my own imagination for as long as I live.
Though not a soul remains here with me, and the streets are silent when I walk, I can still sense them. Or what's left of them. They're not human anymore. Their friendships crumbled as their society did, and now they're nothing more than feral beasts, shells of people, empty fucking shells. As empty as my shotgun shells after I kill one.
Sons of bitches. That's what I call them.
Just sons of bitches. And I'm their God.
They have their king and queen in hunger and thirst, their basic needs, but when they see me they know that I'm something else. I am something beyond their comprehension, something more than a hunk of meat. No, when I point a gun at them and they hear that bang, they know what I am. I am a God here, and I have my people, and my world.
My people. My world.
I'm motherfucking God.