He offers up his bowl and three coins fall into it:
One euro.
Fifty cent.
Five cent.
'Thank you, God bless you, sir.'
He gathers up his coat, his bag and his bowl and walks towards the McDonald's. He passes many people walking quickly either side of him. They are running to the buses, running to their businesses, running to their children left at home. He walks on, calmed by the falling change and the certainty at a hot meal. He picks the coins out of the bowl and shuffles them in his pocket with the others. The combined sum makes one euro and eighty cents. He will buy a burger now and go home. When he gets home he will begin The End.
He places the coins on the counter and points at the hamburger on the menu. Words only where words are needed, is the thought he feels. He slumps up against the wall and watches as the coins are taken away. He is told that the receipt machine is out of order, asking if he needs one. A shake of the head. They tell him he is number 60. 302Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMR3A2UPPyR
Number 60... he ponders while leaning against a chair. It is something to think about. He tries to think about his name being traded for a number, the name switch being the result of such a measly amount, if only for such a short space of time. But he cannot think like he used to and when his eyes fall to the legs of the young people fluttering in to buy their meals, the idea of thoughts abandons him. His knuckles turn white. He does his best to claw his eyes away. He can see by turning heads that he is failing. He knows his own darkness. 302Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyLE9CivZ8v
But he remembers that he will soon begin The End, and following it, nothing else will matter much anymore. He surrenders to his own evil, his head revolving like a possessed mannequin, eyes glossy, registering, drinking in every sin. He feels the swelling sound of pop hits and discourse be drowned out to a soft hum. It is the ecstasy, he wonders. His vision blurs. He forgets why he has come to this place. His number is being called. His name is being called. He forgets completely about his burger. Suddenly, the idea of beginning The End is too powerful and he stumbles outside.
He retches in awe on the footpath. A teenage boy has followed him outside.
'You right?' His tone unkind.
A nod. A massive, wonderful nod. 302Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcuwxJiO5mQ
The boy hesitates, meaning to say something, now faltering at the strangeness of the man, he is about to return inside to his young companions when he feels compelled to warn the man.
'Stay away from the girls. Yeah?'
He turns to face the lad.
'God bless you, sir.' he says with a smile. The man gathers himself and begins the walk home. His back now turned, the lad hurls a cup of Fanta. It splats by the man's feet. Taking no notice, mind engulfed with thoughts of The End, he continues on his way, rounding the bend into some such street which will take him where he needs to go.
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He shuts the door as the bolts rattle through it.
He turns the key.
He slides the bolt.
He clips the chain.
He pushes a chair before it.
'God bless us all.'
The room is black. He stands in the hall, waiting for some moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. A sound of thumping can be heard from the inner rooms of the house. He slowly begins to feel his way through, being mindful of the boxes, of the black bags filled with papers, of the empty food containers and empty plastic and glass bottles. None of it is of him, and yet he keeps it close by. He has carefully constructed this maze in anticipation of The End. He is ecstatic at being able to finally realise his full vision. As he treads through his self-imposed labyrinth, he removes his hat, his gloves, his coat, his vest, his boots. As he moves, the thumping grows more audible.
Upon reaching the kitchen, he knows that walking upright will be impossible. He squats and continues, he pushes through the walls of fabric, discarded clothes, paint tins. He reaches the space which used to hold the basement door, but now offers a splintered gateway to a darker room. He pauses at the foot of this, waiting for his eyes to re-adjust to the greater blackness. The thumping of the man below is much louder now. He sways on his heels in anticipation of enacting The End. 302Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡO5yIy5RmnA
From here, the house's cave network becomes so small that only crawling will suffice now. He removes the remainder of his clothing and crawls along on his belly down the stairs. Many splinters become lodged in his skin. There is some pain, but it only encourages him, reminds him of what's to come. The End, he thinks, The End of the end. We've always been ending, ever since we started, haven't we? He reaches the man in the basement. 302Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0GZwnGeqqC
The man bound has no name which he could recall. He has no title except for 'Mr.' Mr. arrived here sometime in the last few months. He rasps through the gag. His head thumping against the board behind him, desperate to escape. He is bald. He is weak. The thumping grows smaller by the day. There is a dark space from where he rams his head. The wood will rot more quickly here. Words are not precious here. 302Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2fkYlEwY4A
'Let me go.' Mr. moans.
'I won't.' He replies.
'I will do what ever you want.'
'You are everything I want.'
He slams his head harder than ever.
'Is it The End yet?'
'Almost. You've been patient.'
He crawls to the spot on the floor where there resides a black orb.
Mr. sees the man pick up the orb and begins to scream. The man takes this sound in. He relishes in it, as if it's the last holy lullaby his mother sang to him as she drifted off to her own eternal sleep.
'God bless you, sir.' He says to Mr.
He carries the orb across the space and lumps it down onto Mr.'s lap. Mr. keeps screaming.
'See? Nothing to be frightened of.'302Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOb7m4VnpgN
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The End. 302Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtELBsylODL
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and then Add to home screen.