The world had never been a kind one. Some so-called 'poets' write about nature like a gentle mother, as the person who raises you and nurtures you, but that is why they write in the medium that is poetry, a purposeful romanticization of reality rather than the truth behind it. The world does not care about anything. At a basic level, it is not a sentient being, so any thoughts of instinct, let alone complex emotion, are entirely impossible. Even if it was, why would it care specifically about you, or me, or humans in general? Again, poetry romanticises us as beings who are greater than the sum of their parts, but what have we done that's so great? Yes, we've made new things, yet at the same time, we destroy the world around us that just a moment ago we were praising.
We are beings that, at their core, are chained by our duality of nature. Everyone wants to be known as some great and kind figure, but at the same time reap the benefits that come with disregard for morals and ethics. Maybe I come across as overly harsh, but I'm already on my last legs here, so I'll have to ask for a little leeway in terms of my right to complain. I probably come across as being depressing, but in reality, most of it's just simple contemplation and sharing my thoughts, since ya know, I have the time and nothing better to do. Despite this, I think that a little bit of doubting the intrinsic worth of both humans and the world is called for right now, with me bleeding out on the floor of a public toilet, face deep in excrement.
Generally, stories start with exposition, but I thought I'd drop the bomb on you early. I guess you deserve to know what's going on, so to grossly oversimplify, I've been stabbed in the chest several times after being confronted by muggers. I forgot my wallet, they thought I was lying, things happen and now I have several extra holes in my body. It doesn't really hurt that much, though. I think they might have cut a few nerve endings, which is why I can't move, but I've always been pretty good at being beaten up, though to this degree is certainly a new experience. Anyway, soon this rancid smell will be gone, and so will I. Maybe that thought is a little morbid, but I can at least go with a modicum of dignity, right? At least, as much as someone who died french-kissing a toilet can possess, anyway…
The world seems devoid of any colour now. I think my time is almost up. My vision is going hazy, and the darkness is slowly seeping in from the corners, filling me with a numb ecstasy. Light doesn't exist here in the first place, nothing does. Born from nothingness and insignificance, we return to this state similarly. Not heaven, not hell, just... a void. An empty plain, devoid of anything, and that itself is and more terrifying to me than any hell I've ever envisioned. This is death and everything that that word means. It means futility. Everything is numb but somehow I am in agony at the same time, singing with pain as torn flesh should. I guess pain exists even here. Ever so slowly, my thoughts slow down, from the speed of a quantum computer to the speed of a laptop, from the speed of a laptop to the speed of a calculator, and then into nothingness.
From this abyss, my eyes begin to open. I see nothing because all that surrounds me is nothing. A perfect vacuum, devoid even of myself, yet somehow I am present. The emptiness is so thick that it's as though this nothingness is tangible, and has substance behind it, like a sort of pseudo-dark matter. All that my head can register is the nothing, the confusion, and the fear intrinsic to these things. Thinking in this state is painful and terrifying because everything around me denies that I am conscious, that I am here. Desperate for some kind of sensation, something, anything to grasp on to, I focus, attempting to impose my will, my consciousness into this void in order to regain my sense of self. Suddenly, I feel. Everything is numb, but it is there, and I can reach out and grasp it. As I think this, I hesitate.
'Is there any reason to continue this…?', I think as I weigh up the options. If I do reach out and become fully aware, what then? Maybe I've prevented non-existence, which is almost always a good thing, but then what? I'd have to exist forever in this void? Alone? With nothing but the sound of my thoughts and eternity, I'd soon be driven mad. Madder than mad. On the other hand, maybe reaching out will let me see another world. Another life, another existence that my human nature urges me to take. An invisible attraction is formed between my mind and this option, subtle in nature but equally incredibly compelling. It seems that I want another chance. I've never been a gambler, and this is very high stakes, but it seems I will always lose if I back out now. I was never excited about death and only accepted it because it was the only way to stop myself from breaking down. No matter how you prepare for it, the concept of nonexistence will always be horrendous to conceive. Thus, reaching out my hand, or what I sense as my hand, I grasp the manifestation of this opportunity before me. 'This time', I think, 'this time I'll do better'
As my consciousness fades to white, a strange voice sounds from nowhere.
"Welcome, Participant 1,234,023, to Necropolis!"