Radiation swallows the land whole. Decay and rot form in ooze-like puddles all along the cracked, dry wasteland. Blood, tinted green and turned clotted, never dried after all the time that has passed since it was spilled.

 

Clocks don’t tick forever. When they stop, time begins to blur, and soon after, you don’t know how long ago anything has ever taken place. Like clocks, everything eventually fails, stops ticking. The mind, the soul, and especially the body. I can’t imagine why mine hasn’t yet. Maybe there’s a reason, one I don’t yet know of. Maybe it’s simply sheer bad luck. 

 

The withered and decrepit limbs of long-deceased animals scatter the earth, mutated, with no organism left to decompose them aside from the unending passage of time. Even with the dark, murky smog that coats the skies in a viscous layer of seaweed- green light still manages to crack through the walls of nuclear confinement. Maybe it’s just science, and there’s simply not yet enough smog to block out all light. Maybe it’s a sign of God—hope. Though unrealistic, given that no god could ever let things get this way. 

 

Why, God? Why me? The loneliness is more torture than any amount of pus, blisters, or radiation sickness could ever cause. Especially when it doesn’t kill you, the absence of mercy is agonizing. I used to hope I wasn’t the only one who lived to see this cruel and vile reality. Now I wish I hadn’t.

 

My house, though ruined, is the only thing that brings me some comfort, as much comfort as anything could give me anyway. Rot decorates the walls carefully, creating something so lacking in any pattern or created order that it’s almost artistic. The wallpaper isn’t anywhere to be found; it was reduced to dust and more pollutants for this earth’s poor atmosphere long ago. Even the floor is mushy, almost like mud that doesn’t stick to your feet, creating clear footprints with each step. It’s poetic, really. Everything falls apart eventually. Time takes all, and then more. It inflicts dilapidation and change upon everything, no matter how well built or designed to stand the test of time, including me, especially me. There’s no such thing as a perfect score.

 

“Hey!” A strange voice rings out across the house. 

 

With my skin stuck firmly onto the surface of my spring-loaded coffin, I lift myself upright. I can hear the surface layer of my skin begin to shed and tear away from my tainted flesh, as it seems to prefer the mattress as its host over me. The feeling, while peculiar, is painless. 

 

After what has felt like an eternity of radioactive suffering, the body grows numb and self-sufficient. If it had killed me long ago, I wouldn’t have minded, especially if I knew how long it’d be until anything of any substance happened. I push with weak feet against the dead, splintered floor, unleashing a series of cracks and snaps throughout my body as I come to stand. 

 

After escaping from my chrysalized state, I choose to visit my once beloved kitchen to see how it has been after all these years. With shaky legs I step, one step after the other, carefully to my kitchen. Each step leaves a small, misshapen footprint on the floor, resembling a crescent.

 

As I walk through the once-framed entrance to my kitchen, I notice the fridge to my left. The mirror balances upright against the side of the now-warm refrigerator I used to take pleasure in eating from. On the refrigerator hangs a slightly torn photo. In it, there is what looks like a family. Next to a tree pose a man, a woman, and a little girl. The sky looks blue, and a light green shade of grass scatters over the ground instead of cracked, dark dirt. It almost appears as if time stops there. I forgot why I put that photo there. Maybe I knew these people before hell opened up. Before life ended. It opens up a pit in my stomach. Why do I not know? I wish I did.

 

Again, a voice chimes, booming with impatience in my left ear, “Hello?” I almost don’t notice the deafening stranger’s voice as I turn my head to stare into the shattered mirror.

 

Standing before me is something that can only be described as vile and undeserving of a presence on this earth entirely. A man covered in skin riddled with deep, green-tinted scars, accompanied by large swelling blisters all over. Thick ooze leaks from his pores like perspiration, covering his body in an oily film. Boneless, finger-like appendages with wispy pointed ends emerge in strange places: his head, his eyelids, his armpits, even on the palms of his hands. Accompanied by this freak mutation is hair growing in odd places all over the body, in small but dense clusters. I draw my eyes to his only to be caught within them. Discolored and bleak, with blisters even forming on the outer edges of the eyes, they contain no life within. What stares deep back into me is empty and void of any life. Not a speckle of light twinkles within, just a pure, cold, consuming darkness.

 

“Hello?” The voice speaks without a filter for its loudness, like it’s trying to harm me. Its boom leaves my ears ringing violently and causes hot liquid to pour from within them. It hurts. It shouldn’t hurt.

 

“Hello?” Again, the voice rings out, no quieter or louder than before.

 

With rage induced by the pain it has persisted to cause me, I scream, “WHAT DO YOU WANT?” Madness pours out from my lungs, scraping up all the voice I could muster. Gasping frantically for breath, I try to avoid the feeling as if I was drowning. I can’t remember the last time I spoke. My vision is blurring as colors begin to swirl in my eyes. I grow impatient, awaiting a response from this unwelcome visitor.

 

“You are alone.”

 

I know that. I don’t need reminders. A cruel reality I hate to think about, one that is unbearably true. The vexation of his remark disturbs me. It irks me because I can’t understand its reason. Why me? What did I do to you? It’s in my head. It has to be. Why would someone be alive after all these years? Here? In this place? It’s a lie, a facade, some sick illusion. A hallucination.

 

“You’re not real.”

 

“Oh, but I am. I am real, friend.”

 

Another blatant lie. A friend? Those all disappeared long ago, along with the rest of my humanity.

 

“You’re not my friend. I don’t have those. I don’t have anything…”

 

My back tightens, the pressure tunneling all the way through my torso to my chest. Fluid starts building up in my lungs the more I strain to speak. It feels like I’m drowning.

 

“But I am your friend. I am your only friend. I’ve always been your friend.”

 

A sharp pain strikes me in my chest and back, replacing the tightness with agony, flooding my mind with confusion. The pain only swells greater with every breath, its intensity multiplying by the second. It hurts more than anything I’ve ever felt before. It’s almost intoxicating, so much feeling after so much of, well, nothing. It almost turns the pain to a feeling of pleasure.

 

“Sto-... Talk…”

 

Speaking feels impossible. The fluid builds further and the pain only continues to balloon.

 

“We’re the perfect pair. I am trapped, I am crazy, I am disgusting, I am alone, I am gross, I am worthless… I’m just like you.”

 

Insults, lies, blatant instigation. Just to upset me more, and more, and more, and more… Nothing like him, he’s nothing like me. He’s nothing.

 

“We’re so similar, but we’re not. Similar doesn’t describe us. In truth, we’re the same. In truth… I am you.”

 

“You-.. Can’t… Be me..”

 

He can’t be me. How could he be me? I’m the only one alive, everything is dead. He should be dead, he should die.

 

“Look in the mirror, look deep. Who is that? Who is that standing there?”

 

Who is standing there? Surely it is him, but how could it be? He is not real. Has he infiltrated my vision as well as my mind? His invasion sickens me, it almost makes me nauseous. I need to take back control.

 

“It is us, friend. Do you not recognize yourself? I suppose time didn’t stop for us like it did for them in that photo, huh?”

 

My blood begins to boil. Breathing feels easier, likely because I simply forgot about the torture of the feeling and can no longer focus on that sorrowful flooding of my lungs. The voice won’t go away. It refuses to cease its dreaded communication, its words only growing more aggravating one after the other. I hate it. I despise it.

 

“But you don’t have to worry about them anymore. We’ve got each other! We’re good friends now, great friends. We live together, we’ve lived together, for so long, like family. We share this vessel, this vessel is ours. It doesn’t have to be.”

 

What does he mean? I don’t get it. I don’t understand. His words don’t make sense. His tongue speaks confusion. His illusion speaks deceit.

 

Something snaps. The feeling explodes, and everything around me stops mattering. Time stops. I rage, screaming with all my being like I have never been able to scream before.

 

“LIES! LIES! LIES! LIES! LIES! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”

 

I thrash my arms wildly in hopes I will make contact with something, anything. Anything to satisfy the desires of my destructive state. Green and warm liquid sprays out from my mouth, not like vomit, just simply the discharge caused by the intensity of my mad cries. Is he done? Is he finally quiet?

 

My mind goes numb as my body’s frenzy comes to an end. My arms drop harshly to my side and my head falls to rest. Dizzy, I try to lift my head up once more. In front of me is my bed, worn and falling apart, though inviting. I need rest. All is better with rest. I take a step toward my desolate deathbed, wanting nothing more in this moment than the bliss and mindless comfort of sleep.

 

Like static in my head, his voice finds its way to my eardrum again, spouting more nonsense, the same as before.

 

“This vessel is mine, just as soon as you see that we are one. You’ll see, you’ll see…”

 

Tired and worn from his games, and without the energy to speak, I turn my head one more time toward the broken mirror. My eyes draw me to an unspeakable sight.

 

Blood-red eyes, beady and overly large, glare deep into mine with a crooked and toothy grin to pair with it. It sends chills down my spine, making me feel something I haven’t felt in so long: fear. It sits on my back, carrying all kinds of crevices and scars on its abhorrent face, similar to my own skin. It appears to be latched onto me, undulating and pulsating with malice. It begins to speak, with an unnerving sense of excitement in its tone of voice.

 

“Can you see? Can you finally see us? It’s you, your best friend! Do you know what this means? We can be free now, friend. We don’t have to suffer any more…”

 

Before I’m given the opportunity to react, a horrible burning begins to well deep within my flesh. Sharp, radiating pain like a thousand hot knives stabs and slashes all across and throughout my body, twisting into what can only possibly be described as pure agony. Hell’s torment persists on as the feeling evolves further. At the center of it, my back begins to shift and swirl as I shudder in despair, unable to breathe, nor scream. Weak, I fall flat to the floor. The pain intensifies rapidly and begins to grow out, extending beyond any reach of the physical form I thought I had control over. Fluid falls down upon the ground like acid rain, puddling around my planted face. My skull pierces the soft mush of the floor as a forceful downward pressure digs deep into my back and head. Suddenly, the horror of it all stops.

 

My eyes jitter as my pain grows cold and fades without notice. My body becomes numb and limp as my ears ring with the sound of static. In front of me, the mirror is still leaning. Through it I see a skinny, deformed figure standing on top of me, wearing the same face that appeared on my back just moments before. He is looking at me, smiling, eyes wide and bloodshot, staring directly into mine. Darkness shortly settles whilst my vision falters. Everything grows quiet and fades to nothing. I can feel a new presence of something, somebody, but not him. The sound of soft, giggly laughter echoes and dissipates in the back of my head. It feels warm. It feels nice. It almost feels as if the world is normal, like how it used to feel.

 

Again, I hear his voice just above me, speaking the last words I may ever hear.

 

“We’re free, friend. This world will hold you no longer, nor will you hold me. Everything’s just right now. We’re just where we need to be. It’s perfect. You can finally go see them again. Ahh, I hear it now. Mercy has come for us. At last, friend, we have our mercy.”