It was a long time ago. Probably right after that comet smashed into the Earth, and while the remaining dinosaurs were wondering, with their walnut-sized brains, What the fuck was that noise? And what happened to the Sun? And why is it so cold?
Back then, I had kids. They were my ex-wife's kids, to be specific, but I counted them as mine. Fuck, my daughter I got to see being born, so blow me if you don't think I had the right to count myself as a parent.
Anyway, my kids, and all kids I guess, they had this thing they'd do. This warning of sorts. Whenever they'd be hurt or upset, they'd start to scream. But it was almost never immediate. Nope, they'd inhale first. And, the longer they'd inhale, the more piercing the inevitable scream would be.
A couple of seconds? A normal scream.
A minute? A terrible, horrible scream.
My daughter would, I shit you not, inhale for an hour and a half sometimes. And then she'd let loose. And everything good in the world would wither and die, after briefly wishing it had never been born in the first place.
I think I started inhaling a few weeks ago.
I can feel this scream building within me.
I wouldn't want to be around me when I finally let loose.
I, unfortunately, have no choice. I have to be present. But everyone else? Everyone else should stay the fuck away.