This story was not written by me, it was a fun project by my classmate Tareesh who gave me permission to post this. Its not really about AC but its the closest to the proper category.
The air was thick with the scent of death. Death hovered over the entire island, ready to silence its next unlucky victim. The grotesque face of Death was always in sight, for those whose life's light was close to being extinguished. Cholera, Beriberi and leprosy. The demons that served as the malicious hands of Death. They wrung their prey dry of water, they stabbed at their hearts, and they tore their bodies from their limbs.
Ja'asir Rabani Bin Geralt woke up every morning from his nightmares only to wake into another. There were two types of people on the island.
Those that denied the reality of Death, and lashed out violently, clutching at the ever fraying rope of life, which was simultaneously being severed by the scythe of death from the top. They refused to face their inescapable end, and they blamed everything that they could, cursing their lives, cursing their gods.
And then there were those who had gone numb, and waited in silence for the cold embrace of Death, their eyes glazed over, already as good as dead. Everyone eventually reached this stage, once they had burned themselves out and roared their rage into the godless skies.
Ja'asir was nearing this point, but a tiny voice inside him still railed against the unfairness of his existence. There wasn't good communication between Saint John's Island and the mainland, making the island seem abandoned and isolated. Due to the lack of communication, abuse towards the island's inhabitants was not uncommon, and went unnoticed. Stories and rumors floated around the island, about how murders were planned to thin out the dying population. Stories of inhabitants disappearing overnight, never to be seen again, and stories of people who didn't get food rations, so they would die out faster. The men in charge of them were monsters to be feared, not guardians, as they should have been. Their deaths and disappearances were covered up, just like the graves of those that had died on the island, hasty and obvious.
His will had been stepped on, crushed, torn apart and sent through all nine circles of hell. What was left was a tattered remnant a shell of what was once a man. Nothing fazed him anymore. No news that his best friend, Syafiq Nasri, had died from a violent bout of diarrhea. Not finding out that he had been infected with leprosy. Not the knobs that had started to form on his arms and legs, or his skin decaying away, or his slowly blackening, dying fingers. Not that he could not leave the island. Not that he only had weeks, maybe a month, left to live. Death was taking him, piece by piece, but he was powerless to end it.
Every night he slept, accepting of the fact that he may not wake up. He wanted to die in his sleep. That way he would pass peacefully, painlessly.
It was his third week on the island. Ja'asir had lost his left hand. And he no longer recognized the monster in the mirror. His time was near. He sighed. The ration bells rang, signalling the inhabitants to collect their rations. Today, Ja'asir decided he would stay home. There was not much point in eating anyways.
That night he lay in bed. The pain of his hunger overwhelmed by the pains of his body. Like the rest of the island's inhabitants, Ja'asir's eyes glazed over. That tiny voice was gone. It had met a grisly end within the confines of his lost mind. The man known as Ja'asir no longer existed. And now, a zombie lay in his place.
The night breeze blew, and he felt the floorboards creak in the wind. The sound of the door hinges squeaking drifted into his ears. Had he left the door ajar? It did not matter.
A few seconds passed, before he felt the cold touch of a metal blade against the skin of his neck.
"Sleep, friend. You shall suffer no more", a shadowy silhouette whispered. "Thank you…" Ja'asir said with his final breath, as the blade ran quickly across his jugular.