What would you do if you knew you were going to die?
In a way, this question could be rendered of all its drama by the gentle reminder, that all living things had to face the end, one way or another. But this was nitpicking- The idea of mortality rarely crossed people's minds in their every-day lives, unless they were reminded of it, so pointing out to a person who knew they were going to die soon that everyone did was- useless. Heartless. Robbing them of their own tragedy, the importance of their lives.
And yet, it worked on Wreckage, like a foul-tasting medicine that was hard to swallow, when he read the words from the cheap lined notepad in a stuffy, clean infirmary.
Everyone dies. Get over it.
It worked, why not, because who cared? He'd carefully, subconsciously, crafted his life this way, turned into a Grinch that no one loved and now he had exactly what he wanted.
“A hollow triumph,” Wreckage said to the empty room, smoking to get the lingering taste of death out of his mouth. Everything had gone according to plan and he'd wasted a perfectly good couple of decades by doing absolutely nothing worthwhile. Nothing that he'd leave his mark on. In and out, like a ghost.
Suddenly he hated his own miserable amusement, the silly names and the costumes and a cause he didn't really believe in because he'd never really cared very much for the other mutants (if he was painfully truthful to himself). And for a brief moment he considered walking out of his room and leaving the world in pieces before he left.
He knew he could do it, if he could summon up the energy to get up.
Wreckage remembered a poem, moments later, somehow in the kitchen now, still smoking- he'd destroy everything when he was done with that.
“Do not go gentle into the good night,” he whispered, and the clock on the wall ticked, loudly. He stood in the dark. “Rage, rage against the dying light.”
He smelled the sickly sweet smell of cocoa-flavoured cereal, eyes flicking on the abandoned notepad on the table.
“And you, my father, there on the sad height,” he mumbled, “curse, bless me now, with your fierce tears, I say.”
He put out the cigarette slowly. He scrunched up his face, as if in pain, with the fierce and alien reminder of the smell of someone else's hair- someone who needed a notepad. It wasn't all that pleasant, to be frank, because it was uninvited and unwelcome and it still eased something in his chest.
Wreckage turned and stopped the clock, on the wall, out of a whim, but returned to his room peacefully after that, to sleep.