When the earth went dark

The forced conviction that we were special destroyed us. That wreaked more havoc than darkness.

Nobody is special.

I guess it's hard for others out there. I'm sure, but if there are others they must be like me, and those who are like me don't let themselves be seen. They are prudent. Those who are like me do not go out.

Outside there are no monsters. There is darkness: a closure that adheres to the shell like the suction cups of a mollusk. No. Very Lovecraftian. Let's say you don't see a minga. The disproportion undermines sincere discouragement, which is always bitter.

The vegetal mantle, I think, have found a way to continue forward in the dark. I know because I can hear the swaying of tree branches through the boarded-up windows. I couldn't fix that its leaves are still green, or by chance if the color exists in absolute blackness, but what I can mention is that the leaves have fallen and new ones have reappeared. The chord is unmistakable.

The tree is alive.

I am not a scientist [I am a surveyor] however evidently the sun continues to emit vehemence, otherwise the tree would be dead, and the low temperature would already have ostracized us; although that force is not found internally in our explicit light field. Does that have an address? I don't believe it. But, I insist, I am not a scholar. Maybe we've all gone blind, but why do I still see the glow well?

I have one of those old broadcast equipment. I remember when my father bought it. The antenna was bigger than me. Broadcasts from other countries could be heard; Uruguay, above all, however, on certain starry nights one could be absorbed hearing voices in other languages ​​to which my father attributed a German accent.

To save batteries I have maintained a strict listener's routine: I turn on the device for precisely one minute, not a beat more, not one less, at 11:59 p.m. It is to express that I have obviously been listening for 900 minutes. This has made it easier for me to get an idea of ​​what has been happening abroad.

The temptation to be outside took over for the survivors. Then fell those who sought unscathed, abstract excuses for the misfortune, such as the need for food and liquids. imbeciles. One can hydrate with the moisture that condenses on the glasses, use sweat, urine; one can feed on insects, on excrement. I have learned that cockroaches have a high protein content.

But the cockroaches, contrary to those who had sentenced us, were the first to leave when the service ran out. We usually saw them hanging around the kitchen, surprised when we turned on the light in the middle of the shadow. They are now largely stealthier. I had to destroy the kitchen wall to collect a dozen starving specimens.

I am proud that I have reached the point of establishing a strict program of onanist practices to save my own fluids, which I store in small vials. I also drew a quarter of a liter of blood per week, on the urge to suffer from serious infections, however later I read in an encyclopedia that drinking blood accelerates dehydration, so I take a few drops to catch insects.

Initially there was a wave of murders in the vicinity. An inhospitable old man, an old woman who lived alone. Anyway. I don't want to cause commiseration with lurid details. If you are reading this you probably know what we did. Because we all did. When the sun went out I did not live alone. He had a wife, children.

I guess the last to vanish were the ones who went mad from isolation. Curious, right? We are capable of eating a decrepit old woman, our own children, but lack of communication ends up weakening us more than scarcity. Of course there must be others, I have no doubt, but those others must be like me, and those who are like me survive because they don't leave.

From day 200 the electricity ran out and commercial broadcasting stations stopped printing. Outside it was a mess. Nor did the bolder films hint at the horrors we came to as a class.

By day 475 all civilian communications ceased, at least on the broadcast channels I was able to tune in with my obsolete transmitter. Since then, only static has been heard: 425 days of clean cosmic frying.

At these dates there must remain few like me. It is an assumption, of course, but based on probable measurements. At first we were divided between those who killed and those who decided to commit suicide. The number is irrelevant, because the end result is that only those who killed were left, and they were forced to kill each other.

Obviously there is a third group: mine. Like who says, those of us who do not go out in any way, nor if our dear little son implored us to let him in. But how many more could there be like me? How many, with moral disinterest, with biological obstinacy, to conduct themselves in the conditions in which I have lived?

Very few.

I was thinking about this when it was 11:59 p.m.

I interrupted my musings to turn on the radio. The battery recently died.

With a final rattle he emitted a hiss: my name.

It is 00:22 pm.

I'm going out.