Beyond my window, the reaper rolls in, the devil himself, with his dark, all-consuming arms outstretched, with the ferocity of demons in his mind. He runs to meet us, to take us even before our souls have left our holy vessels. His arms ravage the fields sown with golden wheat, and the fields may have as well ran with my own blood. The only thing he left behind was the stalks, bent over and weeping. I feel the tug at my clothes of my daughter's hand, and she cranes to me for comfort amongst the devil's rage. I cannot hear her over the wind, her voice reduced to nothing underneath the screams of him. I hold her close as the devil ripped through the yard and into our home. Everything was plunged into darkness. I could not even see the windowsill in which I had so desperately peered from. now at the mercy of the devil. Not even God can speak to us through the darkness or over the howls of the wind. They call us the Last Men, and so do we. The phrase meant something different to the man at the hall, urging us with unbridled passion to stay in this land of wheat, wealth, and life. Now, I believe this means something different to me now that I gaze into the eyes of the devil himself. I am the last man in my last moments, watching the world fall around me. |