My last letter

A horror piece as social commentary on the young generations role in a world forged from exploitation an abuse.

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My eyes feel swollen, like static, my ears ring, the smell of wet hay assaults me, I scratch up and down my arms, it won't stop… My skin tingles as maggots crawling, burrowing deeper and deeper into my flesh, they lay. My heart racing, my throat tightens, the bitterness teases across my lips, my tongue numbs. I scratch, I tear at the infested flesh, you hold me down, I bite, sinking my teeth into my own rancid flesh. My body lays in the desert sun, picked apart as my body nourishes those carrion that seek to engorge themselves on the labor of two decades of commited self destruction. My remains tell of a life once wasted, as the vultures feast on my bloodied, bloated corpse, they tear at my innards, crushing bones that once housed my heart.

I remember when life was not so complicated, before the parasitic nature of the world was revealed. We can't be held responsible for the actions of our fathers I'm told, yet even in my death I'm left paying, paying for the greed and insatiable hunger of those that came before, I've witnessed death on a grandiose scale, I've heard hate rot the soul, felt the molten lead searing through my broken bones, my dreams haunted by memories of the cruel, sadistic nature of man. If there's a god, they aren't looking over me. So I run, runaway from the pursuing madness certain it would otherwise overtake my twisted mind.

Our birth is a time of great excitement. Excitement I never asked for, we are gifted with sentience, with agency and yet we aren't free. We grow old, we grow dumb, we isolate ourselves from the truth that displeases us, we tell ourselves we can be anything yet the only thing we are promises end, we seek reason for a greater meaning but all we find is one singular truth… we are born then we die, if we're lucky, between the two we get to raze hell. However the great oak filters the air, houses the venerable, nourishing the earth, in turn the oak continues indefinitely, our lives are but a blip in the lives of the trees, to the oak our existence is a mere moment to be lost in time, from our birth, to our deaths, from our first love to our first heartbreak, just a moment to the oak, they watch as we age in a manner of seconds.

These days those seconds feel like eternity, like a race to prove how much death, sorrow and heartbreak we can fit into a minute, a moment as we flirt with the suggestion of fulfillment only to fall to the trappings of complacency. Should we dare, dare to seek that which we feel we deserve?