Yet at the same time it's somewhat unthinkable. My writing takes on a mind of its own, I know what the main plot points are and I make sure they're kept to but the writing does what it likes in between - it even surprises me a lot - so the thought of writing the end when any number of things which I have no control over could happen in between? Just...
Still, I do know how - kinda - Soc is going to end. So I thought I'd give it a sort-of go. This isn't the end, it's more my mind's drabble on how it's going to end, but it was fun all the same. Weirdly enough, while I can't remember the song I was listening to when I wrote this I can remember it being a happy song... this perhaps says a lot about me. Anyhow, on with the show:
* * *
I wobbled on my feet, staring down onto the street. The light breeze brushed and danced around me, almost like a soft, accepting caress. But how could I be accepted now after what I'd done?
I thought back, back to the meeting room with the pistol still lying on the floor where I'd dropped it. I could still see it, lying abandoned in a pool of red next to the body of the man I'd killed. It was ironic really – this had all started, and now ended, with a dead body. Perhaps that was supposed to happen, an endless cycle of misery for a group of people with no right to exist at all.
And that we weren't. We were test subjects, little more than lab rats which had been given a taste of freedom and when called back couldn't help but try for another bite. People like us, with our freaky abilities, just didn't belong in the world.
Looking up, I sighed deeply. The stars shone like a billion burning bullet holes in the navy blanket of the sky; it only reminded me more of what I'd done. But remember as I did, I still couldn't help but feel justified in what I'd done. That was the scariest part. What right did I have to judge whether other people had the right to live?
Larker had been misguided, but he had only been doing what he thought was right. Maybe they could've found a way to make his work useful in the future, but how many lives would he have ruined in the process? Were a few lives worth it? They'd never know now, and maybe that was a good thing. There were some things no-one was supposed to know.
I looked back down, onto the black night-time streets illuminated by the odd flickering light, and – not for the first time – it struck me how easy it would be to just...
Tip. To tumble off of the edge of the roof into the oblivion below. After all, I'd already told myself I had no place in the world so perhaps it was better for everyone. And oh, so very easy. An easy, calm decent. A better option.
So I rocked, precariously hovering over the edge. It would only take a push – just one push – for an easy way out. I was sick of the weight on my shoulders. It was cowardice, sure, but when had I claimed to be anything else? I'd had good intentions, but the consequences along the way had been many. After all, as they said, “the road to Hell is paved with good intentions”. So it was easier to let go – my foot slipped, and a weirdly muted panic rose – to topple – and some instinct made me throw my hands out, forgetting there was only air there, and feeling the world rush by – to just...
* * *
How very happy. I have to say I did think of maybe putty in some sort of witty comment after the last word, but that would be no fun. And since I do love to spoil things, no, he doesn't die.
See you next time (which may be today...)