0800 Hours: Recording #009

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Click.

“0800 hours, two days since my house was invaded and I had to gallantly fend off my attacker—”

“It is literally eight in the morning, shut the fuck up and go back to sleep.”

“— who I graciously allow to sleep in my living room and leech off of my food supply.”

“Who are you even talking to?”

“I'm recording myself.”

“... Why?”

“To document my life for future study, of course.”

“And who, dare I ask, would ever want to study your positively fascinating life?”

“...Well, anyone who makes it, I guess. The generation after this, and the next one, and the next one, and all the ones thereafter.”

“If there are any.”

“...You think the Infection'll wipe humanity out?”

There's a pregnant pause, all the possible answers suspended over them like a knife on a string, like a rock on the edge of a cliff. The microphone barely picks up the next words.

“I don't even know any more. Maybe. Maybe not.”

Click.

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