When I heard that the world would end in a week, the first thing that crossed my mind was suicide. The ability to write down all my regrets and end it all before I had to witness all around me burn in flames. I wrote down how terrible I was at creating. Sure, I had ideas for art, music, books, video games, et cetera; but I was never talented enough to make them, nor did I have an urge to do them. I wasted my life playing video games and watching YouTube. Tears welled in my eyes as I wrote the note. A few landed on the page. When I finished writing, I grabbed a gun, placed the barrel on my forehead, and wondered if I should really go through with it. I then realized that if, during all of the previous days of my life, I never considered suicide, but now that I know that I will die in a week, I want to end my life in advance? I threw away the gun, and began to wonder exactly what I should do during my last week alive.
Day 1: All around me, everyone was shocked when they saw it on the news that the world was ending. Some people cried, others just ignored it and moved on with their day. I tried drawing, just simple sketches with a drawing tablet and a stylus. No matter how much I messed around with the brush sizes and colours, nothing looked like what I envisioned in my head. It seemed like "outsider art". No one would want to look at that garbage. I looked up all of the elements of art. It seemed so ridiculous. Who in their right mind would care so much about, or even notice, the lines, shapes, forms, spaces, textures, colours, and values of an object? I personally thought that it would be more interesting to provide abstract interpretations of common objects, but most consumers of art are too scared of the unknown and only want to hang the pictures of dead people.
Day 2: I heard some people say that it was all a lie, a prank, a social experiment meant to tie into some sort of political propaganda. I can't help but imagine that they were lying to stay strong in front of their peers. I tried playing music. Sure, I love listening to music, and although I remember playing the piano as a young child, I have long since forgotten how to play. The guitar always seemed like a mystery to me. I could never handle the fingering, and I can't play a single chord. I never knew what kind of music to write, because I feared that someone in some foreign country already penned that melody, and I would never hear it due to the media's overexposure of English music.
Day 3: I heard a couple have an argument. They finally decided that since they were going to die, they might as well admit to each other that they wanted to see other people. I heard attacks and screams. I wanted to call the police, but I wondered if they would eventually stop. They never did. I drowned them out by writing. It's funny how I know all sorts of tropes and clichés involved in writing stories, but when I actually got to my computer and tried writing something completely serious rather than just some fanfiction that no one would ever read, all I could think of was that it was awful. I had become too critical of myself. As words appeared on the screen, all I saw were clichés and a soapbox where I flood potential plots with ideals and views that no one cares to hear. I considered just deleting the file and moving on, but I figured that if no one will ever read it, why delete it? Sure, it's a story, but since I never shared it, it didn't feel like one.
Day 4: I heard my elderly neighbours on the phone with someone attempting to sell them supplies to avoid their impending doom. They sounded desperate; as if they would do anything just to avoid dying. I thought about how much money they would waste on material, non-perishable food, and pills that would "make them immortal". Powering on my laptop, I saw Game Maker. Video games interested me at such a young age. I decided to give coding another shot since I always had dreams of publishing for Nintendo. As I kept coding, I saw that it was invaded with bugs. I was too stupid to fix them, and I remembered why I stopped. I set unrealistic goals for myself. I wanted to make triple A games, but I couldn't even code something as simple as Pong or Frogger. I wasted so much time during college attempting to learn, and I only made myself miserable when I saw my screen light up in red from failures, and when I saw my grades filled with 0s and Fs. It had been months since I actually last played a video game. Every time I turn on my consoles, I feel as if I'm wasting my time; almost as if I'm procrastinating and there's something that I'm forgetting. I deleted Game Maker from my laptop and cried.
Day 5: Children in the houses around me were telling their parents that they were scared. They were having nightmares. They didn't want to die. The parents could do nothing but give them false assurance saying that they would be alright and that they would still be together, even in death. Looking at the list of books that I had wanted to read, I initially decided to start tackling them. As I read through, I couldn't enjoy them. It was like some force was telling me to finish the chapter. It's weird. I can watch a thirty second long video that's pure shit and leaves me with nothing but rage and distaste for my generation, and yet classical literature, written by some of Earth's greatest wordsmiths, designed to enlighten and educate generations and touch upon universal concepts, I cannot read. It's as if my body and mind refuse to absorb the words. What caused this? I had so much fun reading in elementary school. Had my teachers caused me to turn on reading due to them forcing me to read what was part of the curriculum and forcing me to find a meaning when I couldn't? Ironically enough, I search for deeper meaning in video games and music, asking what it can teach me about culture and history, but when a teacher asks me to, I refuse? With my mind filled with unpleasant memories of school, I shut the book, never to be opened again.
Day 6: On the news, suicides had reached an all time high. I couldn't believe that people just wanted to throw their lives away and couldn't wait for a natural ending. To take my mind off of it, I got out my video games and started playing. For the first hour or so, it was fun; nostalgic even. I paused the game, looked at my collection, and it hit me. I wouldn't have time to play them all. Video game collecting had been a hobby of mine, and seeing how much money I spent on games that I would be unable to play made me realize how much time I had wasted, even as a child. I thought of how often I forced myself to play on nights where I just wanted to relax. I thought of all of the games that I didn't own and couldn't find and how I would never get to experience their art, their music, their gameplay, nor their world. Looking at my board games gave me similar thoughts. I eventually shunned myself to my room for the rest of the night.
Day 7: I did absolutely nothing. I did not leave my bedroom. I locked the door. I did not see what my neighbours were doing, nor what the news was reporting. I did not answer my phone, despite my family and friends wanting to say goodbye. I lied on my bed, listened to music, and cried. I meditated. I prayed. I thought about God, and I wondered what I would do in Heaven, what it looked like, and what death feels like. I looked out my window and I saw a bright light. The temperature in the room began to increase at a rapid pace. It was time. The world was ending. I was finally dying. In an odd way, I felt at peace. As my skin and flesh melted away, I did not move. I cried and screamed until my lungs gave out. It hurt, but it felt satisfying to finally see it all come to an end. White noise invaded the music coming through my headphones. I dried my tears as my vision faded away. The last thought that came to my mind before my mind worked no more was if I lived a happy life. Despite all the regrets, all I could think about as I felt my internal organs stop was "yes". I was happy. My lips curled into a smile as my soul left my body. I awaited Heaven with open arms.