Project: Haven

An Opal in the Snow

A lanky man scrambled through several documents spread across his desk. In the background, the radio sang to him; keeping his mind at ease while he nervously bit at his thumb. His heart was heavy, pounding at his chest while he read the same words over and over, again and again. His mind went blank before he could so much as even catch one sane thought that crossed his mind.

The end, he kept thinking.

The end, the end, the end?

This was around December 19th, year of 2021 when this unimportant man was in utter turmoil. He rocked back and fourth in his office chair- looking around the office he wasted years in. This was his life and this was what became of it; divorced twice, with four kids he saw once every other weekend. He was the vice president of some big wig company out in New York. He was important, so he liked to believe.

On weekends, he wasted his life away in high-class clubs with high-class people; important and rich, much like he was.

This man was called Clarke. You can call him that, since everyone else did. His mother brought him into this cruel world alone. He grew up without a father, and his mother died not shortly after the kid learned to tie his own shoes.

He was adopted by some family in Brooklyn who treated him better than his real family ever would have. This was not enough for this man- he fell victim to the belief that blood ran thicker than water.

He grew up, finding happiness at the bottom of every bottle of liquor he polished off. His high school teacher asked him one day, something that stuck with him until his end.

"Clarke." His history teacher said, smacking a ruler on his desk.

Lanky, uncomfortable Clarke jolted up in his seat, meeting his teachers gaze. Clarke was no fool- he was tough, and smart, and deep down there was some good inside him. There's good in everyone, but that's another conversation for another time.

In Clarke, there was a small amount of good, but there was more hate than anything. He somehow found respect for his superiors; a great quality for the future vice president of a multi-million-dollar company.

"Y-yes?" He asked.

His teacher stood up in the midst of class. He was lecturing about something no one cared to listen to, so he decided, in that moment, he would get Clarke to listen.

"Can you live off eleven dollars an hour?" His teacher asked.

Clarke thought for a moment. The year was 1992, and back then, eleven dollars seemed like more than enough. He could buy a new car, pay his own rent, and make his own way in life. Finally he said,

"Of course!"

His teacher shook his head. "Of course," He mocked.

"Could you raise a family?" The man asked him.

Clarke thought again. He may have to put in a few extra hours a week, but with over-time, he figured he would have more than enough.

"Yes, sir!" Clarke said, sitting up in his seat, brushing off the wrinkles in his plaid shirt.

To his surprise, his teacher shook his head.

"Young man, the answer is no to both. A man cannot live off eleven dollars an hour, nor twelve or thirteen. A man cannot support his family on this, either- that much should be obvious. The average cost of rent is around seven hundred dollars for a house or apartment with two bedrooms. Say you get one. You have a wife, or husband, maybe they don't work- maybe they do. You have to support them. You have kids- one of them gets sick, you go to the hospital. That's another couple hundred for the month out of your pocket. Your car breaks down, a couple more hundred. Then you have to think of insurance. In total for your car, yourself, and your families; let's say that's a couple more hundred. Now you have to feed yourself and the people you're supporting. I'd imagine that's about four-hundred dollars a month, give or take. What then? You're stuck having to pay almost two thousand dollars that month, bringing home a little over a grand. The system traps you, boy- do not fall victim. Better yourself, so that way you can better the lives of others."

These words stuck with him, though he must have forgotten the last part. He remembered, always, to better himself, though he forgot to better others along with his success.

Women often fell for his sob story about how his mother was taken from him, how his father left his mother, how he became an alcoholic, but was able to overcome it. How his first wife left him for his best friend, and how his children hated more than anything in the world being forced to visit him.

True, his life was tough, and it's easy to pity someone who has been the butt-end of all of life's sick jokes. He was afraid and alone, and when he died, the world was a better place for a moment.

Now his death happened only two days prior to the death of seven billion others. He was driven to madness once he got word of the borders closing and every American being required to get micro-chipped. It was too much. He went to church a handful of times, which made him an expert in everything Biblical and God-like. That being said, he knew that the bible had pointed out these two very things- both he and the media knew there was no positive outcome to any of this- so he went mad.

After his panic attack at work, he fled the office in a hurry. No one cared to ask why; he was known for suddenly leaving to indulge in extravagant activities.

He got into his brand-new car, one he'd bought after realizing last years model was too outdated for him. So be it. He drove to the suburbs, down a quiet street where each house looked the same as the next.

Finally, he parked, went to the back of his car, and grabbed a small brief case he kept in his trunk. He looked around for any witnesses, before opening the briefcase. A small, ten millimeter pistol lied heavy in his hands.

He picked it up, looking it over before checking to see if the gun was loaded.

He knew then what it was he had to do; what he wanted to do. There was so much life had taken from him. He deserved this- he deserved to be known, to get revenge on all who had taken from him. They took pieces of the better parts of him for the last time- he was done feeling hollow and helpless.

He felt the world owed him, and since the world was taking too long to give him what he deserved- he took it.

That day, he put a bullet in the heads of his two ex-wives, the four of his children, and his best friend.

When he was caught, he was under the impression that God would save him. In the end, there was no God that could so much as look at him, let alone another man or woman that spoke of him in any high regard.

His God had abandoned him, for that he wept. For the lives he took, the world wept.

For the lives taken by war, the world smiled; knowing such madness had been swept away from its surface.

The end had driven the sane mad and the mad to their graves. The world carried on, though- forgetting of Clarke and everyone that had the displeasure of knowing him.

When the world starts anew, it's easy to forget that we're all just a speck of dust in comparison to the infinite measure of time.

Only when we remember that we're about as relevant as a mad human driven to kill his family- that's when it hits us. And when it hit those seven billion other humans, by then it was too late.

When the bullet took the mad man's life, he smiled knowing that he was finally bettering the lives of others- not just his own.

And the world went on.