The Poor Man's Apocalypse

The apocalypse was not as expected. Our fall from civilisation was neither quick, nor fast, nor exciting.

It began in much the same way as any political change. A new rule here, a new tax there, inflation, unliveable wages, the lot. The well to-do middle class soon sank down to our lowly ranks; neighbourhoods slipped from homely to unkempt. Concrete began to crack, unemployment began to rise, and soon a slum lay upon every door step.

There were riots, of course. We were angry. Treated as nothing more than fodder to feed the gluttons. We ran their markets, cooked their food, sewed their clothes, and as they languished at the top we scraped pennies to buy food, to pay rent to fund their real estate. I was lucky to have a roof over my head, though I hadn't had water for the last few weeks. I'd taken to shaving my hair off entirely; it was no fashion statement. I couldn't stand the grease any longer. The limp strands had stuck to my face, emphasised my already gaunt frame. I looked like the living dead, my eyes rimmed with an unending darkness, my skin almost grey under sunlight.

This was the new normal. My two bedroom flat hosted five roommates, myself included. We were as close to zombies as real life could get. We sat around a lot, doing nothing, often too tired for small talk. We'd search for work wherever it was available, but demand was high. A sick day could lead to termination, arriving late would mean you were never called in again. Graciously, two of us were granted a job seekers allowance, enough to scrape together cheap meat and a few large water bottles. Strictly for drinking, and only in an emergency. I was immune to the smell of poverty.

We lived in the hope that things could change. Sometimes, we would find paint cans and smear the walls with colour to cut through the monotony. On our better days, we would tell jokes, smoke a cigarette or two, because we needed to feel good every now and then. People weren't as kind as the novels would lead you to believe. Half our town was in survival mode, stealing and cheating, venomous and unjust. Our small family held each other together, as best as we could.

The few belongings I owned I kept locked away. I never let the key out of sight. It hung on my neck, trapped inside of a heart shaped locket, tucked below my t-shirt like a secret. There was nothing of value in there, I'd already sold what I could. They were mementos of a past life, a world I wouldn't believe were real if not for the photographs, the letters, the trinkets. Concert tickets, shopping reciepts more than five items long, a note my mother wrote me a week before she passed. I'd flick through them every so often, perhaps once a month, and think of my childhood. I wished I'd have appreciated it more, savoured every luxurious moment, every bite of chocolate, every moment filled with joy. Even those filled with sadness, I wished I'd cherished those too, because back then there was an end to the fog, a guarantee that it would pass.

I can only dream of such a day.

There is no interesting story to tell, no uprising or revolt against greed. We pray to be treated as human, not sub or otherwise. We work, we sleep, and we suffer. There is no time for much else, not without leadership or drive. They relied on our exhaustion to lead to complacency, and I'm afraid to say, they have won. We are not angry, we are numb, and they will squeeze us til we drop.

An everlasting resource, too afraid to die out. How profitable.