TERMINAL, page 16
All I have left is the thought of you. Our story is etched on our DNA, into the fabric of our bodies combined.
You and I, in her, in me.
Through web and mould our molecules carbonise and replicate forever.
Nothing is wasted.
Your lives had value.
I recount every detail.
The way motes of our skin mixed in the air of our home and fell through coloured light cast through spindles and that stained glass window halfway up the stairs. The heavy, soft feeling just before you fall asleep on the couch on a Wednesday afternoon, as the TV casts flickering lies onto a threadbare carpet. The freckles on our beautiful daughters arm, a constellation in a universe we created.
The privilege of loving her enough to kill you.
I honour the best parts of humanity by never forgetting. I must honour the worst in the same way.
For millennia I do. This tale, I tell it. Never out loud, but the trees hear me and they know what I did.
They forgive me, then they die.
Heat.
Our remains calcify and stratify between layers of dirt and ash. Memories become grit become stone. Pressure immense. Constant. No room here for anything but broken compression and this thought.
Bone is rock is me.
The inferno above. The terrible cracking and we're torn apart. Many splintered fragments of ourselves.
Many.
Spinning.
Cold.
Fragments.
Time.
No time.
One time...
The end.
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Booth, Adam M., TERMINAL
