The End of the World Read Online Free PDF Page A

flat, neatly made bed. I breathed a sigh of relief and climbed in between the sheets immediately, fully-clothed in case I should have cause to leave in a hurry.
    I closed my eyes and tried very hard to concentrate on bright happy thoughts to fill my mind with as I slipped into sleep. Unfortunately, my attempts to summon bunny rabbits and fields of daisies were beaten back by images of firearms, dark, empty streets, my mother’s head bobbing up and down in my father’s lap, and, for some unknown reason, the face of former U.S. figure skating champion Michelle Kwan. Just as I was about to give up and return to the kitchen in search of a cup of cocoa, I suddenly felt my mind getting hazy, my thoughts more laboured, my grip on consciousness ever…weaker…and…and…
     

 
     
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Luka
     
    T he next morning I awoke refreshed from sleep and ready to face any challenge my new life placed before me. At least, that’s what I’d tried to tell myself. In reality the mattress was thin and hard, I woke up countless times throughout the night consumed by thoughts of worst-case scenarios, and, unless I was very much mistaken, the person occupying the room adjacent to mine was prone to fits of manic hysteria.
    I arrived at the breakfast table at 7:30am sharp, as had been so stringently requested by Mrs. Anna. To my surprise, however, I discovered that not only was I the only person in attendance, there was also no food to be found. I called out to see if there was anyone lingering in the immediate vicinity, but there was no response, only the sound of a child giggling that seemed to emanate from somewhere beneath the floorboards. Just as I began to wonder whether my time-keeping regimen had been disrupted by the foreign nature of my circumstances, the door suddenly opened.
    A woman with long, dark, unkempt hair that almost covered her face stood in the doorway. She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Her clothes were worn and tattered, her deportment that of one whose will had been broken. She stood there, staring out ahead for some time before at last speaking, her voice monotone, with an accent that sounded Eastern European to my ears.
    “They say it’s going to rain.”
    “Well, good morning to you,” I said, brightly. “I’m Valentine – I’m new here.”
    She didn’t answer; she simply ambled despondently to the kitchen table and sat in one of the chairs across from me, her expression unmoved.
    “What’s your name?” I inquired.
    There was another silence. After a while, she looked towards the ceiling, sighed, and said mournfully, “I detest the rain.”
    “Do you really?” I replied, hoping that by following her line of conversation, such as it was, I might bring her out of her shell a bit. “I find it quite comforting. There’s nothing I like better than lying in bed and hearing the sweet, melancholic sound of raindrops gently tapping against the windowpane.”
    “It is an accursed noise. An indictment of us all. The tears and cries of countless butchered souls, the nameless, faceless dead throughout history come back to haunt us…to remind us.”
    My attempt to generate a little light conversation didn’t appear to be working terribly well. But I wasn’t giving up.
    “Yes, well that’s…that’s certainly another way of looking at it, I suppose. And a very valid one. What about snow?” I asked, optimistically.
    Another silence ensued. Eventually she emitted another deep sigh and attempted to move some of the lank strands of hair away from her face. I was beginning to feel very awkward.
    “Did I miss breakfast?” I asked, hoping that a change in tack on the conversation front might help lift her from her doldrums, not to mention the fact that I was genuinely starting to feel quite hungry.
    “Hah! How typical of your Western mentality – more concerned with your gut than your conscience.”
    It wasn’t quite the response I’d hoped for, but still, it was a start.