To be honest, the end of the world was a lot less spectacular than I hoped. The first day was the day where the world went into mad panic, and the first deaths begun to rack up on the death chart. I was locked in the house with my mum, my sister and my dad, and we were all crying into each other's arms (we were pussies) and watching the Lion King over and over again until we were in a emotional breakdown, (as I said, pussies) but eventually it got us. I say us but it was everyone except for me. I don't know why but I didn't get affected, as the while everyone else died a short miserable death. Everyone I knew and loved gone, in a matter of hours.
I thought I was the only one left, the only human left on the planet Earth, the place that God apparently built in 6 days but could be taken to shit in hours, and god did I feel lonely.
Did I try? I tried to kill myself once, I tried to breathe in the polluted air, but it did absolutely nothing. I thought about jumping off a bridge or something along the lines of that but I couldn't bring myself to do it; I had a feeling that soon my life would have some sort of importance, fuck knows why but I had a gut feeling and so I followed my gut.
I walked for days, across the hills and down the roads, stopping off at empty places like Tesco's and garages to eat and drink. The food hadn't died, which surprised me because whatever had killed us had the toxins provided to kill humans in seconds, so surely it should of killed the food, and the water still remained in one piece, I mean what did I think it was going to do, break?
So I walked onward and onwards until my legs felt no more and my strides were far past laboured. But as much as I thought I was alone, I had hope, and that was enough for me to keep going.