By Emily Chen

He sat in the gathering darkness for what had seemed an interminable time, reflecting on the train of events that had brought the situation to a head. But no, it was too late. Too late to reflect. Too late to think about doing anything that might change something, that might be right to do. It was too late. Too late that nothing was meaningful. Literally, nothing.

He stared at a point in the air. Obviously, he couldn’t see anything, yet he was still staring. He didn’t move, not for some seconds when he realized his situation. His breathing was weak. He was not physically hurt. He just lacked energy.

His thoughts, the free thoughts, kept jumping from one point to another. Yes, he was thinking. Not a meaningful action, just to keep him feeling alive. To keep him feeling he was still a human. At one point his thoughts suddenly go: wait, when was my last meal? But he quickly killed that idea and threw his thoughts to another point, any point that wasn’t as horrible as that one.

Again, not a meaningful action. Whether he admitted it or not, he hadn’t eaten for a long time, so long that no human could have lived. He even doubted whether there was any air — only for a second. But, maybe, maybe, he was just repeating the action of breathing to, again, keep him feeling he was still a human.

He wanted to be a human, obviously. Even though he lost his chance long ago.

But what else could he do? He had memories, yet that was the worst part. He still remembered that there was one stage in his life that he could feel hungry, laugh and cry, hug his parents, play with friends, and all those vivid things that were now out of reach. Completely, out of reach.

Maybe the only thing, and the best thing he could do, was to keep thinking, breathing, blinking and anything other things to fool himself, to make himself be human again.

He was probably the worst human in the world.

But whatever, no one knows. No one except him. And this would be the last thing he did.

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