Until they are gone, until they are dead I can no more rest my eyes and smile myself to dream than a drunk can will himself to sobriety. I am bound by their lust for a future that sees me dead, my family lost to something less than human in its empathies.
I feel that dream, crawling towards me:
You feel for the old comfort, that lie that in our stupidest moments we all fall for: on my own I would be just fine.
Through any apocalypse you would be the god walking among casuals, free from the burden of weekly serial drama. You will suffer no illness that does anything more than build your character, make the self your dream of being even more true. You can judge an enemy on sight; know their limp as a weakness, know their minds and souls strong enough to turn the mountain of conflict into a hill so paltry even a toddler could command it.
And the others will die. Directly or indirectly, they will perish like leathery, wrinkled orchids. By their own failure they will falter and weep as you muscle your way through the truth you’ve known from the day you jumped from the highest reach of the swing: you were born better.
Without them, without the week and ‘ill’ draining you of your own worth this world will end its journey at your doorstep. Everything the sun touches, everything a predator dares take from your kingdom will be done with the full knowledge that if you so desired it, it could, would be dropped to one me in honor of your benevolence.
You are the master of you and yours. Everyone else is simply…less.