The world wasn't made for me. The world wasn't made for any of us. The living or the dead. The world was made and I was made, completely separate entities of life. And we were made for ourselves. To survive for ourselves. I walk the earth and understand the words it speaks into my feet.
I think I believed the world was mine once, years and miles ago, still drenched in promising naivety. The world could be grabbed and I had the fingers and palms to grab it. But it's hard to know for sure what I remember and what I think I remember and what happened and what I believe happened. My mind is its own twisting open wasteland of memories, converging into realities so numerous I lose track. I never know which reality it's going to be.
But there's solemn comfort in knowing that in one of those realities, I could believe the world was mine. I was mine. I had a life and family and I think even happiness, but happiness is hard to grasp. I had a car, I can grasp that. I had dreams. Dreams of warmth, dreams of comfort, dreams of laughing.
I dream of water, now. Sometimes food. A steamy cheeseburger, an open hand. But mainly my dreams are screaming. My days are screaming. Everything is screaming. Fight. Live. Survive. For us. For those you killed. This is your penance, now walk it. Feel it. Break it through your bones. Make yourself hard and callous, because this is the world and this is for you.
I can't remember if I deserve it, but there must be some truth in all that screaming. Otherwise they're wasting precious breath. This air won't last forever. Not for me and not for them.
The world I made for me is brown and blue. But sometimes there is red. The red of death, the red of pain, the red of...
Hope?
A red that tossed my body round, clipped my vocal chords, kept me still. A red that said my name.
A red of hope.
It was a word that echoed my head for hours and minutes and days on end. This red will lead you to hope. Not hope. You had hope once and you left it. Killed it. Squashed like a pestilent pus filled bug. This red will lead you to hope. Another source of hope to wreck, to ravage, to disappoint. To purge. You kill hope, you kill hope, it was you who killed the world.
There's a reality I know where once I was able to make eyelids flutter and lungs cough life. A reality that's stirring on the edge of my mind, pressing cool fingers onto my arm and face.
"Where did you find him?"
"I...went out to the canyon. He was just sitting there, eating a crow."
"Were you alone?"
"Yes. I know, I just...I needed to find the War Boy."
"I'm impressed he didn't kill you."
"He drove me back, actually. He let me ride right behind him. I was even able to hold on."
I drove her back. I drove. I felt. The road, the tires, the roar of an engine, real hands on my shoulders...
"Max, can you hear me?"
Hear? I can hear everything. All your moving limbs and muscles, it's deafening the way you move. The way you suck in air. The way you speak. You're speaking. Real. And alive. And here and now.
"That's what I thought. It's okay, Capable. Try to find him a room and go clean him up."
"Me?"
"You brought him here, he's your responsibility. Otherwise send him back."
Back? Back. No, there is no such thing as back, there is only forward, keep moving forward, keep looking forward, always forward. Death catches those who glance back. He gobbles them up with big meaty hands and teeth made of bullets and daggers. Death is cunning, death is kind, death is behind you. Don't go back.
"Max, Max, calm down, shhh." She's touching you, really. This is real. Do you feel it? The gentle squeeze of fingers against your muscle. You are human. You are existing. Breathe it in until it's gone. Sear it into your mind. Those fingers are existence.
"Why don't we get you cleaned up? We'll get all that dirt off of you for once."
She did something then. She bared her teeth, clean and white. You scare her, terrify her, bring her to her knees.
No, not bared, she's smiling. She's smiling towards you. What did you do? Analyze and understand, she's smiling for you.