[ WP ] The first diary entry of a person who has been accidentally forgotten and left on Earth when everyone else has ascended to a higher plane .

( I was a little liberal with “ accidentally forgotten ” because this is SO similar to a story I ’ ve already written that I thought I would just post it. Also, do you kids usually have a word cap? I ’ m new here. ) 
 
 To anyone who finds this, 
 
 I ’ m writing this before I leave the cellar and in case it is my last chance to tell a story. If you happen to find this, know that you forgot us. I'm telling this story because I want you to know exactly what this means, and how much pain you have caused in forgetting. Your helicopters did not come fast enough, and worse yet, they didn ’ t come for all of us. I have not left this cellar in far too long but I know that everyone else is surely long since dead. 
 
 When I had the privilege of attending school, I learned of many wars. For the sake of preserving the only scraps of paper I ’ ve found, I don ’ t want to elaborate the details of how the world spun out of itself and out of control, but I can summarize the genesis of this descent in a few words: greed, pride, fear. 
 
 Inhabitable chaos became our life. We were told to go to the cellar. Johnny called it “ the final war ” but never talked further about what the finality of it meant for the two of us. There were talks of evacuation in case the “ situation ” arose—the situation of some other land trying to destroy ours -- but such talks never proved fruitful. At least not for us. I can ’ t speak of anyone else who may have been lucky enough to get out. I remember the first day we heard helicopters above us—we wanted to run to them, but we heard the bombs, too. Johnny said it was wisest to wait for the bombings to stop. He ended up being wrong, because they never stopped. But I never blame him for that. We were both too scared to look for help. 
 
 He had hope that someone would come back, and it lingered in his eyes as sharp as daylight. We hadn ’ t seen daylight in what could ’ ve been years. We stayed down there until the booming became like the stroke of a clock upon the hour. Surely they had to know that everyone was all but dead—all but us. 
 
 Johnny told me stories to pass the time. It was dark in the cellar but I could see his face with cracks of light through the floorboards. No story of his would ’ ve been as good if I had not been able to look at his blue eyes as he told it. 
 
 We had each other and his stories, and for a while it was enough- he was better than the food or water that depleted so quickly in spite of our preservation efforts. 
 
 His final story was unlike anything I had heard before and it was my least favorite. 
 
 He told me about something I had seen all my life, and the day we met, long ago: the sky. He described blue, a color we ’ d forgotten as we were immersed in the gray and black of the cellar. I could feel it on my skin when he held my hand and talked about it. He talked about a boy who would lay on his back in a field of the greenest grass on Earth, when it was still a pure place. I could feel the blades between my feet. I closed my eyes to picture it all. He told me of a girl who came to lie down besides him, and how they melted together in the hot sun. Johnny squeezed my hand and I felt it trapped between our palms. 
 
 But then the blue sky fell down on the boy and girl. It happened quickly, without warning. They sprung up from the grass- a trickle of cold air nestled between my toes and I shivered- and ran, ran as fast as they could. Pieces of the blue sky fell, crashing to the earth with loud thuds, leaving gaping holes of black night above. They ran until they climbed below the floorboards. The sky kept falling. It was loud, so loud—I covered my ears as he told the story as it echoed in my ears. It was all too real and I didn ’ t want to hear it anymore. The bombs above drowned out fragments of this twist in his story but it wasn ’ t enough. 
 
 I withdrew my hand from his. Cold crept between my fingers, too. Johnny lay there, looking up at me. He told he me was going there- to the blue part of the sky, the part we had forgotten, the part that had been shattered. I told him it was just a story and he couldn ’ t go there; he said he was telling me the story of us. Of Earth. Of greed, pride, and fear. He was gone soon after. The daylight left his eyes, but I caught a final glimpse of it: a speck of burning white amidst his swimming blue irises. 

