Free The Platform by D G Jones

hideous creatures
beneath the waves will soon be all there is left to speak of life once here. I
know they will never fuck things up as badly as we have, and at least in life
they themselves are blameless.
                It doesn’t
matter now, and it never will again. But in a way, just by breathing, I am
taking my revenge over all those fools who laughed and jeered and enjoyed their
sunny afternoon. I light a cigarette, watching the acid sea boil, and just once
I yell her name to the shrieking wind so that she might not be forgotten, for
while I am here, she won’t be. And as for all the others, I did my best, but it
wasn’t me who took their lives away – not really. It was sealed and finished
long before I arrived, long ago at the City Block Gamma, which now, I guess, is
ashes too. The reason we don’t make it is because we don’t deserve to in the
end. It is almost a crime that I should be last, but somewhere you can hear
that deep chuckle of the universe as it plays its little games with us, with
her, with me. And my last breath will be the telling one, where we finish as we
began, in darkness and in ashes, and it does not weigh heavily upon my
shoulders, because I just don’t care and never did. And in a way, I find that is
kind of funny, and smile into the wind, watching the black waves rolls as they
will forever, with or without us, without end.
                 So I will wait until it’s done. And
if I have my way, my last word will be my sister’s name, the only one who
mattered. It will be the last one called aloud, and if it goes that way I will
be happy. And nothing will have been in vain.