the dead who live on

The ending can't be scary if you're the one who's decided it. What's there to fear when reality's been long chosen? Even more so if you're the one who's curated your fate. The sky was gray and thick as if there were fog. I liked the mystical pops of murky greenery occasionally showing through the curtains of ashy skies. I felt like this was exactly what the end of the world should be like. Clear yet unclear, present but nonexistent. Chalky skies, and death looming just barely in front of me. Just like ash after volcanic eruption, silken white clouds cried tears of pearly snow, prematurely mourning the loss of the girl they sensed they'd loose. What a wonderful day to die. The first soft flurries of winter painting over the world of greenery beneath it. My legs gave out weary from walking and running for what felt endlessly. I could see my breaths puff up from my lips into white foggy plumes of smoke. I could feel the icy sensation of snow melting on contact with my skin. My back felt numb as the snow beneath it soaked through my clothes. But in a way, as my skin paled and numbed, I couldn't help but feel relief. Like, the seclusion of this wintery woods and the cold of this snowy weather was freezing away the heat and hate of what was left of society. Healing every gash and every scar, every little mark upon my skin that this world had left behind. I wonder, how should I die? Stay lain in the snow as deaths cold hands drag me to a life's end? Consume all the fentanyl laced pills in the pocket of my winter coat? Or perhaps climb the tallest tree nearby and plummet to my untimely demise? If i wait long enough, fate will decide for me, no choices will have been made. So I think, that's easier, easier on my conscious, on my soul, on myself, every little part of me. I pulled off my jacket, my skin underneath it was red and irritated, begging for warmth of any form. I lay there and wait to die.