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I DO NOT OWN... You know the rest.

What was it like to die?

This was the question that sat on my mind. A virus of words that spread unhindered through my thoughts, invading every moment of consciousness and every dream that I had. A question that remained unanswered with each passing step I took through the coarse desert sand.

But death should not be on my mind. I was still young, not even a teenager, and yet the thought of death continued to ferment inside my head. This desert, this wasteland, was cruel and unforgiving. I had been forced to recognize the harsh reality that was life. At not even twelve years of age I knew more about this world than most would consider. It was rational, even normal, to fear the inevitability that was death, but I did not.

Every minute beneath a baking sun; every pain of hunger I felt; every drop of water my body wished it had brought me closer to my breaking point. I had come to accept the fate destiny had laid out before me.

I no longer feared death.

I longed for it.

I wished for the sweet oblivion that would whisk me away from all the pain that I felt. I wanted so desperately to lay in the sand and close my eyes and never again gaze upon this desolate world.

I wanted to die.

And this desire scared me.

Deep down some part of me wished to find salvation. To hang on to what little hope remained and find reason to go on. But I found no reason. I had nowhere to go back to. Nothing to look forward to. Death was the logical conclusion of my life. It was the best conclusion, considering the alternatives.

My mother had , when I was younger, told me stories of the dangers that lurked in the vast deserts around our home: raiders, monsters, and even the desert itself. Murder, rape, slavery, and even cannibalism were common events in the wasteland. My parents had left behind society for the safety of isolation. Like every child I had been naive, believing nothing bad would ever befall me or my family.

But I had been wrong.

Everything I had ever known was taken from me.

My mother.

My father.

My home.

All were dead and gone.

And I was alone.

I wanted to cry. To give in to the child that I was, but my body would not allow it. I had had nothing to drink in days. My body would not allow me to waste what precious little water remained inside of me on something as foolish as tears.

So I cried out in my mind. A silent lament for my lost parents. For the life destiny had forced me to live. My eyes stung. My throat burned. My mind was in turmoil, and the dehydrated husk that was me continued to move across the lonely desert. I lost touch with the world around me, seeing nothing but the pain and loss that I had suffered.

I stumbled and fell, down to the hot sand without so much as an attempt to stop myself. I did not remember hitting the sand; I do not know how long I lay there too weak to move or pick myself up off the ground.

This was the end. I was not afraid, only curious as to what lay beyond.

What would I see once I closed my eyes for the final time?

Was there a heaven?

Was there a hell?

Would it hurt?

These questions and so many more ran through my mind as I waited for my life to end.

As I waited to die.

Soon my suffering would end and I would once again see my family.

My only regret was that my life had been so tragically short.

But I accepted my fate.