text: The world sucks, and that hasn't much changed since everything's changed. Used to be, you could get through the toughest of times with good friends. Hell, it often felt like clichéd slogans could heal your bloodiest heart break if it was given by the right person. It's why we even had friends. To get brushed off after being shoved to the ground. If only mine were still here. They vanished alongside the majority of the world. Which, in all honesty, makes my problems seem a lot less significant. Yeah love hurts, but so does the incinerating blast released at the drop of an atom bomb. That happened too quickly for grief. Flash, bang, alakazam. There was doom out of an orange colored sky. I’m not sure why, but mushroom clouds were always a fascinating sight to me. They're hopelessly breathtaking, and promise unrelenting change. A promise it very well kept. In an instant cities were flattened, and our homely blue dot was turned into a one size fits all graveyard. The resting place for friends of a better time, the one I never loved, and my car I just paid off. A wasteland, an authentic fresh start. With nothing left to dredge up what's no longer living. Since the grass is riddled with radiation, it won't remind me of the picnic where I had a wine bottle thrown at my head. As I've heard many times before, history's written by the victor. My name isn't Victor, but I am one of the few poor souls left breathing. So, here's the history. Curiosity gave the cat a death ray, and he ended up killing the rest of his kind in a schlong swinging contest. Whatever, if you weren't lucky enough to have a million dollar survivalist motel, you aren't here to combat me. And that sequence of events sounds about right in my head. A self absorbed society ushering in the apocalypse through an obsession with their own demise. Which, honestly, I can't much hate them for. The world might, but I can't. Inventing a nuclear bomb is without a doubt destructive, but at least the madman found some purpose. I haven't done anything with this miserable life of mine. I'm patient, probably too patient. With no fear of missing out, but a crippling fear of screwing up. Only whatever God would let this happen knows the opportunities I've missed. Him, and the disappointment resting on my darling's face as I drove away last. I didn't see it at the time, but somewhere in those worried eyes I could tell she knew I wouldn't see them again. I hate it, but mainly for her. Knowledge of what hasn't happened always troubled that little head. She never committed, and I think it's because she knew I wouldn't either. Only she had to wait for a bomb siren to understand, for reality to set in. That I couldn't save her. Hell, I couldn't even save myself. I'm here, safe and alone below the scorched earth. Damned by my luck, and my dad's bank account. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I'd been told countless times that I was wrong, that I already saved her. Well, it wasn't enough. I know I could've handled those final moments differently. Things I could've said, a kiss I could've savored, and not to mention a locket I could've taken. One she desperately wanted me to have. Only I insisted she hold on to it. That I'd get it next time I saw her. I want to believe I didn't knowingly leave her to be swallowed up by a shock wave. My father argued otherwise. That somewhere deep down I knew I wouldn't see her, or that locket again. His drunken, "you let her die," screams were pretty convincing. Though it also struck me as oddly defensive, like his mirror's heard the same tirade. I wouldn't be surprised, however. It could very well be why I was offered her golden locket in the first place. To slyly confirm I wouldn't take it, even if she asked. Making me look spineless without even saying a word. Left to hold that scratched up golden heart, moments after I'd gone, knowing I didn't deserve it. All the while, secretly hoping I'd figure it out. That I'd finally commit. According to my dad, I never will. That I'll always be nothing more than what he's not. Which might be why I'm still alive. Salivating at the future. While he lies at my feet, decaying in the past. Sprawled out, and white as a ghost. Now, there's no simple explanation here. Other than the one that explains how the blade I put in his chest caused him to bleed out. Why the blade was put there, is where things get complicated. He always said I needed to become my own man, and get my own hold on life. Well there's no more law and order, so I guess this is my bunker now. The funny thing is, he was right. I let her die, I'm the sum of my father's mistakes, and I've never fully committed to anything. That all ends here. As someone who died off with the old world. Incomplete, and insufficient. Leaving me to care for his baggage, and lift his debt. Not put off, but ignited by the past shortcomings. With a flame reborn in the rubble of my mind, from the blood seeping out my father's chest. Slowly forming into what I always knew I'd find. A crimson puddle leaving the worst of who I was, in the shape of a heart. A bloody heart. No different from the one she desperately wanted me to have.