Supernova



 I  lie awake in bed, slowly staring up at the ceiling. The corners of my room are damp with the rising humidity. I can hear birds screech outside, but I cannot see them. The cloth that drapes my window assures this. I try to get up, but I cannot muster the energy. I lay back, sweat dripping from me.

I resume gazing at the walls around me, their paint peeling and wooden supports rotting under the intense heat beaming down. I continue sweating.

My school bag from many years past lies near me, and I attempt to grab it, managing to grip the vinyl. I pull it back, and rummage through it. After a few precious seconds of searching, I find the sunscreen I was looking for, and apply it. The cool cream is refreshing for a moment before the feeling returns, with the scent of burning skin accompanying it.

Faint shouts can be heard outside now. Cries of the many who have realized the fate brought to them ring through the air. I smile slightly and glance at the child locks placed on my door, and the circular shadow appearing on the cloth.

I end up flipping on the television, my toes numbing and wrinkling. The same program that has been on for the past month is still being broadcasted, warning the people of Earth of their incoming doom. Mercury and Venus have both been swallowed. The only ones who will survive are the ones in bunkers, and they won’t last, either.

After a while, I glance at a picture of my family. Hopefully, they’re okay down there, 400 feet below. My skin is melded to the mattress I lay upon. Almost all of the paint is on the ground, and the birds outside burst into flames. I hear their screeches. I hear mine as I melt away.