The Book of The End. (Prequel)

Have you ever watched the World end?

…Well, that question in itself is a bit asinine, isn’t it?

The longer this goes on, the more jumbled the thoughts get and the less likely I am to make sense at this – the end of everything I’ve ever known, or will ever know.

…Well, that just sounds a little bit too morbid, doesn’t it? Maybe if I double back, everything will start to falling back into place; I’ve come this far and this is the least I could do.

My name is Craft Howie Lewis, and no that is not meant to be sly or witty, the name was actually a nod at a long deceased Writer, whose name escapes me even under these circumstances, though I’m confident I’ve touched on the subject more than once.

I was a middle-child in a History that wanted nothing to do with me, raised as though my parents were playing a practical joke by disarming me for the fires of real life. When I say fires, it is no metaphor, that was one thing that I have not been able to forget: the fires, so many of them. I’d never thought fire could be so terrifying, every instance of my life prior involving it had been quelled, controlled; this was anything but. It surprised me, I’ve never known concrete and metal to twist and crack beneath the hunger of flames. It never even occurred to me as being the slightest bit possible.

I will say this for my own sake, my life was anything but spectacular. If you assumed, whoever you may be, that by myself heading this collection of notes that I am in some way a valiant, heroic Main Character; think again, and again and again. Until not even a ghost of that thought remains.

The third child in a Family of five, siblings older and younger seemed as stranger as people you pass on the street. Their faces escape me now, their names as well… and I am content with this. If I was unfortunate enough to remember some deep seeded emotional connection to these vague silhouettes in the darkness my life has taken, I fear I might not have the fortitude to finish.

I am getting off track. My name is Craft Howie Lewis, and no that is not meant to be sly or witty. As far as I can remember, which is quite far mind you, my choice profession was a safety net – I knew I would never get let go, but I knew I had no room for advancement. I liked that, I can’t remember why I liked that… I can’t even remember exactly what job it was that I had, but I had a mediocre talent for it.

I must’ve been required to wear a suit, because… well, I’m wearing one now, aren’t I? Unless this and everything else is just some strange delusion and I’m adrift in my own thoughts, and somehow my mind put together that Death went hand in hand with a tattered old suit.

There was a flash of brilliant light, almost as if a second Sun had appeared—and that is where everything stops.

I awoke minutes, hours, days or even months later in this place and haven’t been able to escape since. The walls extend for what seems like infinity, to a ceiling that I cannot see and the candle light does not reach. At first, it looked like a study of some sort: parchment stacked on a plain oak desk as high as me, ink, pens, pencils and every writing utensil that I knew to exist and a few I didn’t. (There might have even been a chisel in there somewhere, too)

Shelves surrounded me, not an exit in sight despite my repeated attempts at finding one. The wooden walls did not nick or chip, the shelves did not move and every book from ancient to fresh were filled with blank pages.

Blank pages and every method to write.

So, before boredom or madness came knocking, I decided to sit down and start writing.

It was in this moment that I discovered a talent I did not have before: I can perfectly recount every instance of my life, from the vague days as a toddler to the cringe worthy days as a misguided teen. I could remember the very first thing I ever laid eyes on and I can recite with perfect accuracy, every conversation I’ve ever had. The first time I witnessed Death, the first time I fell in love with a woman whose beauty I dreamt would never escape me, but now it does. The damned of it all, is the further I delve into this new talent of mine, every thing I’ve written gets swiped from my memory—ripped away by the stroke of the pen, a complete mystery to me until I pause for a moment to glance over what I’ve just written. Everything, except for my name. That seems to be the only constant, and should that ever escape me, then I know that the End is truly beckoning.

If I keep writing, maybe it will come to me… the reason this World of mine has come to an end, the reason as to why I am confined to this room to jot down the most dreadfully boring life. Is it of any importance, or is this just what happens when any person faces Death?

A cruel joke of whatever authority decided to catalogue every person’s existence into paper, have them rob themselves of experiences: happy, sad and terrifying… until nothing remains. I can say for certain, this life of mine has been anything but exceptional. I’ve said that already, haven’t I? Every person is a collection of words, repeated over a lifetime and the curiosity remains. What do you think… what do I think, the last Word ever spoken will be? Will I be the one to speak it?

For the life of me, I can’t remember what my point was… so many pages, the handwriting is dreadful… difficult to read, the longer it goes on. I feel sorry for whoever is struck with the task of reading it all.

What was I trying to say, now?

Maybe back pedaling will help me remember? My name is…

The End.