It was death he feared most. Everyday he would wake up
thinking he was an inch closer to the end of his life. He had
managed to make his apartment risk free, so that at least it
was the only place he would always be safe. He didn’t own any
sharp objects like knifes or scissors, and because of that he
bought all of his food already cut into chewable pieces, not
very big either because he could choke on them. He slept on a
mattress on the floor to avoid falling from the bed and
hitting his head. All of his floors were carpeted, except the
kitchen and bathroom, so that if by any chance he tripped on
something, his fall would be buffered by the three inches of
wool. In the kitchen he wore the socks he never took off, the
childlike ones that had rubber circles on the soles of the
feet to avoid slipping, and to be sure, he also wore shoes
that had the same anti-slipping mechanism. In the bathroom,
in front of his bathtub, which he had never filled for he
could drown in it, were five towel mats one after the other
placed one footstep apart until they reached the door. The
bathtub’s floor was covered with rubber mats that had holes
for the water to go through, and he had built in two drains
so there was no water accumulation.
His favorite TV show was “One Hundred Ways to Die” not because he enjoyed seeing the absurdity of the bad luck someone had to have in order to be destined to such deaths, but rather because he saw it as an instructive show that helped him improve his apartment and lifestyle to avoid mortality. He didn’t have any pets, friends, or family members who he kept in touch with. Pets could turn suddenly aggressive and kill him, since he only went out of his apartment when it was completely crucial, he hadn’t met
Living, 9-12, p.1
anyone to consider a friend, and his family got tired of all
of the conditions he placed on everything; he was all alone.
     Days came and went in which all he did was work on his
computer. He worked by writing a blog in which he talked
about literally everything: from comic books, TV shows, and
literature to physics and fun facts. He had started the blog
around the same time his fear towards death grew stronger and
he couldn’t leave the house. As a result, he wrote about
death statistics and dangerous things to avoid, and it
reached so many ratings he decided to live off it. The
advertisements asking to appear on the blog paid him very
good money, and that’s how he didn’t even have to leave the
apartment to make a living.
     Tuesday night, he was getting ready to go to bed,
brushing his teeth in the bathroom and washing his face. He
looked up at the mirror at his own reflection, his hazel
curls wild on his head, his chestnut eyes hard under his
bushy eyebrows in a frown, his face completely shaved smooth,
and his lips chapped from the air conditioner. When he looked
at himself he thought he could even pass as a teenager,
sixteen maybe, judging not only by his face, but also because
of his lanky body that seemed to lack even the slightest hint
of testosterone; his Marvel Iron Man t-shirt seemed to be
hanging from his bony shoulders, and his matching pajama
pants were so loose it seemed that his legs were only made of
bone without any flesh. Who would guess he was fourteen years
older than what he appeared to be.
     Suddenly, an alarm went off, but not an alarm clock, it
was a loud ringing. He didn’t know what to do, was he in
danger? The loud, frantic ringing seemed to increase in
intensity, numbing his ears and annoying him greatly. His
heart began pounding in his chest, chills ran throughout his
Living, 9-12, p.2
whole body, and he began feeling the waves of anxiety that,
just like the ocean tide, went up down his windpipe making it
hard for him to catch a breath.
     He felt his mind take him back to the time when it all
started. He was thirteen and was skipping school so he could
buy a videogame that was just being released. Just like this
time, there were loud noises around him, not alarms going
off, but sirens and screaming. He remembered the thousands of
people stampeding down the streets like cattle, not minding
what they stepped over or what they left behind. He
remembered the thick smoke filling the atmosphere and sky, as
well as everyone’s lungs, which mixed up with the screaming
and sobbing resulted in frantic coughing and choking. He
remembered being paralyzed in the middle of the street, all
his senses completely numb except for his sight, which was
focused on the two tallest buildings of New York City being
knocked down into debris by the two planes. After that, there
was no going back; he fell into the deep pitch of fear, and
never came out, regardless of how many times he was told to
look for help. He never thought it was his problem, but the
rest of the world who was sick with ignorance of just how
close they could be to end of their existence.
     Then, someone started pounding on the main door. He
hurried, although not running, towards the door, carefully
stepping on each towel mat on the floor, grabbing his
bathrobe and putting it own, and then walking faster through
the living room until he reached the door. The pounding
increased progressively in strength and in frequency. He
finally opened it up, and a tall, young, black haired woman
in purple pajama plaid pants, a UCLA blue sweatshirt, and
white slippers was standing in front of him with both a
perplexed and frightened expression on her face.
Living, 9-12, p.3
     “It’s the fire alarm! Move, we have to evacuate the
building!” she screamed.
     “WHAT? This cannot be happening to me. Not today! I have
to go grab my emergency kit, and I’m not wearing my safe
clothes, and...”
     “Move your butt out of this apartment if you don’t want
to suffocate,” she commanded.
     “Okay, but these clothes, as well as yours, could catch
fire any second. Not to mention your shoes that are probably
the most unsafe shoes on earth; you could trip on those
things and break your legs,” he blabbered.
     The woman didn’t hesitate one second and grabbed his
bathrobe sleeve, pulling him forcefully out of the apartment
and leading the way to the stairs. She didn’t walk down the
stairs as much as hopped them down, two and three at a time,
while he hung on to the hand bar and carefully stepped on one
at a time.
     “I am trying to help you! Walk faster, we only have one
story to go.”
     “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to compromise my survival
by being reckless trying to save my life. That is completely
absurd,” he pointed out.
     “As you wish, freak,” she mumbled under her breath while
jumping the final set of stairs.
     When they reached the lobby, there were about forty
people going out the door between the police cars, ambulances
and fire trucks. They both walked out and stood outside the
building on the opposite side of the street watching a cloud
of smoke form between the darkness of the sky. The night
breeze was frosty and smelled of smoke, while it brought
along the dancing ashes.
#
Living, 9-12, p.4
     His whole world stumbled down. He couldn’t sleep in his
apartment where his life was, where everything was just like
he liked it; there were no risks, no worries, and everything
was all measured out and foreseen. On the other hand, what
was his life in that precise second? Uncertainty. Where was
he going to sleep? Where was he going to eat? What was he
going to eat? Where would he get money to get by? Should he
call his family? Was he going to get sick without a coat on?
There were a million questions popping into his mind, and he
didn’t have the answer to any of them. It was the first time
in his whole planned out life, that what happened was not on
schedule. Things were slipping out of his hands more than he
could handle, just like he remembered the first time he went
to the beach trying to grab a handful of sand and watching it
slide through his fingers. He was standing in the middle of
the street without a clue of what to do next, and completely
vulnerable to death’s sickle.
   “Hey, neighbor. What’s your name again?” the woman asked.
     “Trevor. What’s yours?”
     “Annabel. Like Poe’s poem,” she said smirking.
     “I hate that guy, all he could think about was death,”
Trevor alleged repulsed.
     “Yeah, one could argue someone like that never truly
lives. Anyway, let’s go to the dinner or something, I’m
starving.”
     “But that is like five blocks away, it’s freezing, it’s
almost midnight, and I’m wearing a robe and pajamas...”
     “Come on, Trevor, let’s go,” she said pulling on his
sleeve and leading the way.
“Okay, Annabel Lee,” Trevor grinned.
Living, 9-12, p.5