BREAKFAST

The sun came up, just like it did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. I can’t remember the last time it rained. Or snowed. The sky doesn’t threaten anything anymore. It just shows up.

It’s quiet. Not peaceful - dead quiet. The sounds of life, liberty, and productivity are long gone. Even the birds have gone silent. Maybe they left. Maybe they died. Either way, they figured something out before we did.

If there’s an upside to being alone, it’s that the air finally smells clean. No exhaust. No burning plastic. No chemical tang in the back of the throat. Even the stench of the rotting corpses is gone now. I couldn’t bury them all. I tried, though.

For about a month, I buried five bodies a day. Dug the holes by hand. Shoveled dirt. Mumbled something respectful, or at least something that sounded like it. Covered them up and moved on to the next. It felt important at the time - like it was the last decent thing left to do. Eventually exhaustion cured me of that idea.

Madness wears a work ethic at first.

I haven’t smelled smoke in months. That’s when I started to think I might be the last one left. For what might have been a year - maybe more - I saw smoke in the distance. Other survivors. Fires meant cooking, warmth, company. At first.

Later, people burned other things. Furniture. Clothes. Photographs. The past. Books were some of the first to go. A book is only dangerous if someone reads it, and if I’m honest, I doubt anyone had read one voluntarily in decades. Still, they burned them like they were afraid the words might escape.

I still find books sometimes when I forage. I’m picky now. Old cookbooks are at the top of my list - real ones, from before recipes turned into brand endorsements. I need to know how to make flour. Real flour. Turns out that knowledge didn’t seem important to anyone until it vanished. The canned food is mostly bad now. Rusted. Swollen. Smells wrong when you crack it open.

I found a camping book once. Edible plants. Wild berries. Roots that won’t kill you. I’ve been studying the pictures more closely lately. Hunger sharpens the eyes.

Night is absolute darkness now. No glow on the horizon. No distant fires. Just me, my candle, and whatever’s watching from the dark. I snuff it out and crawl into bed, same as every night, and wait for sleep. I never get more than a few hours.

Something always wakes me.

Usually raccoons. Daring little bastards. My scent used to scare them off. Now it draws them in. They think I have food. Sometimes they’re right. I used to trap them. I stopped. There are more of them every week. I’m outnumbered now. I’m just a tourist in their world.

I always heard roaches would be the last things alive. I can’t remember the last time I saw one. Maybe the raccoons got them too.

I caught my reflection earlier. Not much left of the man I remember. Hair and beard long, dirty, patchy. My skin is a map of sores and scabs. They hurt, but pain has a way of blending into the background. There’s still water everywhere, but I don’t trust it. I stick to bottles when I can find them. Cleanliness is a memory now, like comfort or certainty.

I probably smell terrible. Hard to say. There’s no one left to complain.

The sun will be up soon. I’ll unlock the door - old habits die hard - and head out looking for something to eat. Something to drink. Something that lets me keep pretending tomorrow exists.

My grandmother always said breakfast was the most important meal of the day.

Most days, it’s the only one.

If I can find it.

© 2026 Michael C. Metzger