They Live

I've never been one for crowds.

Too many people, pushing and shoving, trying to drown You, to drown out what makes you unique with a haze of white-noise. I hated it. Always have.

My mum always said that social skills are as essential as knowing how to walk. Well Mum, what the fuck do you say now?

Am I to socialise with this tree? Or this rock? Oh, I know, I'll engage in a lively debate with that dead body.

Everyone is dead. Well, nearly everyone. I'm still alive, which is admittedly hellish nice quiet. Yeah. It's quiet all right. It also stinks to high heaven.

Okay, so It's day... nineteen -- I think -- of this new reality and the bodies really need to be buried but I've already buried so many and I'm getting real fucking tired of digging graves.

I haven't heard another human voice for at least nineteen days. The silence is almost palpable. I'd give my right leg for someone to talk to.

It's bad. How can I miss people so much? I hated talking. Hated it with a passion. Hated people. I made my own little bubble and didn't let people in because people just make things complicated and ruin everything.

I guess there's a difference between solitude and isolation-- namely one is amazing and the other makes me wanna blow my brains out. (But then who'd bury my body?)

Know how bad it is? I made myself a damn Wilson. That's right. All Tom Hanks and shit. It was a book, at one point. I think. Anyway, it's a hunk of cardboard now and I'm carrying it around like it's gonna magically turn into a person or bring everyone back. It's a useless piece of shit.

Every time I go to chuck it though I can't do it.

So by my side the not-quite-a-book Wilson expy stays.

But you know? Beyond the bone crushing loneliness it's somewhat enjoyable.

I can drink and smoke and piss whenever and wherever, and even though it's worth shit now, the feel of a fat stack of cash in both hands is almost orgasmic.

There aren't any rules at the end of the world. The revelation came to me shortly after my little not-really-Wilson did, and boy, I went right out and exercised my newfound right to do whatever I damn well pleased.

Through it all I could hear my mum's voice saying "Isaiah Ezekiel Lennox, I did not raise a ruffian" and finally, finally, I get to say "fuck off" even if she isn't here to hear it.

Oh. I should probably be more upset and broken up about her death, shouldn't I? But why the hell should I? She was a witch! A vile, evil creature who fed on misery; believe you me, she gorged herself throughout my childhood. The bitch was clever. Vaguely sociopathic too.

Have you ever dealt with a sociopath? Hope you never have to. It's hell. You walk on eggshells and you've got to feed their enormous ego and dear god, whatever you do, never disobey.

She didn't love me. She loved that I was part of her. She said that was the only reason I wasn't aborted: that in doing so she'd be killing a part of herself. What kind of mother looks her seven year old in the eye and says, "If you weren't mine, I'd have killed you by now"?

I swear to god. The woman was insane. So I don't miss her. In fact, I rather like her being gone. It's an improvement.

Even if that's the only improvement.

God, it's quiet.

Sometimes I shout at the sky. Just to hear something.

More and more often I drink until I'm seeing triple and can't think. It's nice, getting that drunk. In fact, it's freaking awesome because hangovers are that much easier when there's no noise!

And who the hell is there to judge me when I vomit all over myself? No one. Just me, myself and I; and I don't care.

I don't care about the now defunct laws. No policemen, no felony-misdemeanour, no you-have-the-right-to-remain-silent, sir. I can do what I want when I want and no one can stop me.

So what if I've delved into anarchy? Is it really anarchy with only one person? I could be my own king. Make my own laws. Rule over my not-quite-Wilson.

Oh I like the sound of that.

King Isaiah Lennox. King Lennox. Your Royal Highness Isaiah Ezekiel Lennox.

It flows. I was made to rule. Even if it's just over myself. I should make the rules, and the calendar, and gather the food and water and distribute it.

I need a crown. I could use not-Wilson, he's made of carboard, but wait, good monarchs don't use their subjects as crown-building material. Plus, not-Wilson is better as a companion than a crown. I can't rule over a crown.

It takes a bit of doing, as paper is damn flammable and Hell breached Earth with fire and brimstone and all that, but the library's vast collection isn't completely obliterated. It was just severely depleted.

I use The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, tearing out pages with sick glee. Always was one for crafts. As a kid I had so many model airplanes and model trains and model Eiffel Towers that my room was more a museum than a place to sleep.

A craftsman king, huh? Like Jesus, the carpenter king. (Was he actually called that? I'm not good with religion. I only know as much as I do from listening to the Jesus Christ Superstar soundtrack.) either way, I like the comparison.

Oh my good lord a computer yet lives. It's one of those ancient models that takes for freaking ever but it works, and it has notepad. Cringing at the comic sans font (seriously, who fucked with the standard interface? Stupid librarians) I write up a rough legislature. Ignorence of the law does not excuse but education saves the taxpayers a hella lot of money.

First rule, obey King Isaiah Ezekiel Lennox over all other rulers.
Second rule, today is the nineteenth of year one, post collapse. 19, 1PC. This day shall forever be a holy day, to commemorate the accession of our beloved King Lennox to the throne.
Third rule, if others live, they may become citizens of King Lennox's kingdom, but failure to abide by the laws will result in punishment.
Fourth rule, if others live, even if they are not citizens of King Lennox's kingdom, they are not to be killed. Man will not kill man.

Oh yes.

Years are three-hundred and sixty five days long, no exceptions, and days are twenty four hours long, no exceptions. This age is called the Post Collapse age, and we do not speak of the times before this. King Lennox's rule must supersede all other history.

This world is mine.

Good.

Now I can be as antisocial as I damn well please.