Stella Mortis

Mutantur ~ Change

A brisk wind snipped at my bare neck as I reached up to pull the peg off the washing line. A few more tops and shorts hung further on but I stopped and looked up at the cloudless sky. Suddenly, but only subtly, the Sun seemed to brighten. I could only tell because I had been studying it for weeks now - noting any change. Call me crazy, call me paranoid, but it changed slightly each time I checked. Slightly bigger one day, slightly brighter the next. Even scientists hadn't realised the strange activity of the ball of gas that gives this pathetic excuse of a world life. It may make me sound like some kind of freak or alien, but it's the truth: Earth was clinging to survival by the skin of its teeth. (Maybe not the best metaphor for this.) The gas being released by these ignorant fools is ruining our planet; harming the animals, destroying our environment, and killing us all. I would go on to explain how this works and why but..the world could be ending and I don't want to waste energy on explaining it to someone who could be dead in the next week. Anyway, something was happening to the Sun but I don't know what. I think I'm the only one who realises that something is dreadfully wrong. I often tried not to dwell on that too much but it may be the difference between cities evolving and humans becoming omnipotent and the entire universe going KABOOM.

The Sun dimmed slightly again and I returned to my work, making a mental note to add the subtle shift of light in my journal. (Yes, I have a journal. But it's only for any discoveries or research.) I took off all of the clothes from the line and hauled the filled laundry basket back inside. Setting it down on the kitchen counter, I strode into my room and took out my leather notebook. Quickly, I scribbled my findings down and shut it. For a minute, I just savoured the feel of the leather and thick paper, letting all my thoughts drift and picturing my mum giving me my first notebook. It was black, pure black, and the paper was lined. I used to write stories and poems inside it, probably way too dark and miserable for my age but I loved it; the made-up stories I would weave, my only escape from the real world.  Before my heart could clench further and shatter, I turned to my laptop, lying on my messy bed. My quilt was tangled with my blankets in a heap and the pillow was dangling off the edge of the mattress. I hadn't slept very well last night. Nightmares and memories had threatened to strangle me before I woke up and got a glass of water to cool my nerves. That was six days in a row. I didn't know what brought them on, probably the burden of knowing the truth about our fate. I hated it. I had always hated it. My mind floated again and it took all of my will to yank it away from those sorrow-ridden memories and back to the present. 

I would make the most of the time I had left. I would live my life as best I could, and hopefully exact revenge on the fools who bullied me for so many years, and let them die full of regrets.