by Charlie Carrol

Cogito, ergo sum. I think, therefore I am. I believe those were the words of René Descartes.

I am still capable of thought, which means my tortured existence has yet to end.

They said my achievement would be the loneliest, so I shared it with the world. All went well, aside from some complications during the procedures—they never found a way to remove pain. I had accomplished what I saw as humanity’s salvation. Then it became my curse.

The world went to war, in the only way left. With no way to truly win, no true reason to fight barring paranoia, the only option was pure destruction, as much as humanly possible. If humans are good at anything it’s destruction.

I was listening to radio chatter, drinking lukewarm tea when it happened. I lived on the South Side of Chicago, several miles out from where they dropped the bomb. The worst weapons humanity had built were unleashed that day.

A hydrogen bomb was dropped on Chicago. It doesn’t matter how big it was, it disintegrated the center of the city and the shockwaves leveled the rest. I was lucky enough to not witness the “sun” swallow my city.

The rabbit’s foot didn’t give me more grace than that.

The aforementioned shockwaves slammed against my residence, eviscerating the entire structure. It passed quickly. In moments I was buried under the ruins.

Rebar and concrete were my tomb, and my one shield against the devastation wreaking havoc above. Yet, it still wasn’t enough to protect me from the unstable energy razing my body. My skin began to peel and redden. Agony cracked through my nerves like lightning, responding to the tendrils of flames lashing out all over my body.

Laying there, my body refused to die. My greatest creation had become my most excruciating curse. Doomed to my gravel undercroft by those men who play god.

I lay here, unable to rest beneath my gravestones; the radiation kissing my skin as fire is to flesh. My lungs seize on the dust from the collapse, as well as the ash carried from the blast. Coughing, a copper taste escapes from my lips.

I laugh. It wracks my body as I attempt to draw oxygen from the polluted miasma, but nonetheless I laugh. Scarlet sprays from my throat as my punishment finally dawns on me. Of course I wouldn’t be spared from the horrors of the end. Of course I wouldn’t be given the sweet mercy of instant obliteration! If they can’t drag me to Hell, they’ll bring hell to me, my own pit to burn for eternity.

This piece won the September 2024 contest:”Write a short story or poem about a person going against nature. What are the consequences?”