- The End

Title: The End

Character Count:

12,735

Trigger Warnings:

Psychological tension, loneliness, existential dread, voice-induced paranoia, implied violence.

The End

I am alone. This is my mantra. Not by choice, but by design – the culmination of humankind’s folly. They left me behind, the unwitting heir to a silent, empty Earth. Plagues, wars, and, finally, the silence. All of it combined to hollow out the world.

My name is Jules Harrick, 34 years old. Former data analyst, proud introvert, and, as of two years ago, the last human alive.

I’ve stopped counting days. They blur. My routine, such as it is, revolves around scavenging through the abandoned skeletons of cities. I don’t take much—what would be the point? There’s no one to share it with. For company, I’ve constructed an elaborate back-and-forth in my head: arguments, dialogues, debates with myself. It keeps me sane.

Or at least, that’s what I thought.

• • •

This particular evening, I find myself inside a crumbling gas station on the outskirts of what used to be a bustling metropolitan area. My haul from the day is meager—two cans of fruit, one dented bottle of water. I sit cross-legged on the filthy tile floor, chewing on a stale protein bar, and the thoughts come, as they always do.

"You’re getting sloppy, Jules. Staying out past dusk, sparing too much energy on scavenging in useless spots."

“Sloppy? Please. You worry too much. No one’s here to care if I’m cautious or not,” I counter.

"What if you’re wrong?"

I laugh faintly. “Wrong? That’s impossible.”

"No, it’s not."

I freeze mid-bite, the bar crumbling between my fingers. That voice wasn’t mine. The cadence was different—sharper, more deliberate. My gut twists because hearing a new voice is, in theory, impossible... right?

I stare at the shadows in the gas station. The darkness presses closer, filling the edges of my vision. I breathe deeply, reminding myself the voice isn’t real. It’s a stress response. Isolation and paranoia—that’s all this is.

“Get a grip,” I whisper aloud, just to comfort myself. A desperate attempt to anchor my reality.

"What makes you think this is all in your head?"

the voice challenges.

Before I can stop myself, I respond. “Because there’s no one left.”

"Maybe you missed someone. Or something."

The rational part of me—that tired, exhausted sliver still clinging to logic—tells me to shut down this line of dialogue. Engaging with an imaginary voice is digging into dangerous territory. Against my better instincts, I can’t resist.

“Who are you?” I ask, my own voice trembling despite my efforts to sound firm.

"I could ask you the same question, Jules. But you already know the answer, don’t you?"

Panic encroaches. No. This is absurd. I clench my fists, refusing to let it spiral. “I’m the only one here. There’s no one else to know."

"Are you sure you’re the only one here? Or are you just telling yourself that because it’s easier than the truth?"

•••

The next few days in the same suffocating haze. Wherever I go, the voice follows. I retreat to a battered building that I’ve made my home, barricading myself inside with canned food and books, unable to ignore what’s happening. Questions burn at the edges of my mind: What if I’ve gone mad? What if I’m not actually alone?

The voice grows more persistent as the days drag on. It doesn’t sound entirely hostile. Sometimes it’s playful, other times almost mournful, but always probing.

"What are you running from, Jules? Why do you cling so desperately to the idea of being the last?"

I don’t have an answer. Denial and anger war in my chest. “You’re a trick of my mind,” I hiss aloud. “You’re nothing.”

"Perhaps I’m more you than you realize."

The voice has a chilling way of twisting under my skin, sowing doubt with every word. It starts using my own thoughts against me, echoing arguments I’ve had with myself and throwing them back in ways I’ve never imagined. It scours the memories I’ve tried to suppress like a blade that never stops cutting.

• • •

One night, as I sit by an old fire pit staring at the embers, the voice becomes unbearable. It asks, again and again, why I’ve never left this region. Why I haven’t explored further. Why I haven’t looked beyond the horizon.

"Is it because you’re afraid of what you’ll find?"

I snap at last, my voice raw. “Of course I’m afraid! Who wouldn’t be? If I leave, I’ll just find more ruin, more proof that I’m all that’s left. I can’t take it. I can’t.”

The fire casts twisting shadows on the walls. I bury my face in my hands, overcome with frustration and grief. For the first time, the voice grows quiet, almost sympathetic.

"Maybe you’re right. But maybe you’re not."

For a moment, hope stirs weakly in my chest, a fragile whisper of possibility. I glance around the room, my eyes grazing over the remnants of my life here. The voice remains silent, as though waiting for my decision.

• • •

The next morning, I pack a bag. Two bottles of water, a handful of canned goods, my solar charger, a flashlight. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but staying here any longer feels unbearable. As I step into the dawn, the voice—as if satisfied—says just one last thing.

"You won’t like what’s waiting. But I’ll be here when you find it."

I steel myself, letting the quiet of the morning swallow me. Somewhere in the distance, for the first time in years, I think I hear something. Not a voice, not exactly, but something that feels alive.

Something is out there. And I have no idea if I ever wanted to find it.

• • •

(END)