[ WP ] You believe you are one of the last people alive on earth after an apocalypse . You have taken refuge in a building with a radio tower and have been broadcasting daily , imploring any survivors to come to you , and just talking . Your supplies have run out , and you broadcast one last time .


 Looking out the window onto the ravaged, desolate street, I took a deep breath. The smell of mildew and musty wood engulfed me, a scent I had learned to ignore. As the reality of the situation settled in my thoughts for what could be the final time, I breathed out in a heavy sigh. 
 
 `` Is this really it? After everything that happened, all the shit I went through, this is the end?'' I thought. 
 
 It was unbelievable. Despite it being so long, everything up until now just seems so... short. Time does n't really mean much when you're so close to the end. Everything just feels so empty. Your thoughts, your surroundings, even your memories. 
 
 What does any of that mean when nobody else is there? 
 
 I looked at the microphone sitting on the oak table, surrounded by dials, half of which I did n't even understand. Was this final endeavor pointless? Should I even make the effort, simply because the only thought with any content I can manage to muster is `` What if? ``, just to disappoint myself again and again? 
 
 I picked up the opened, half empty can of chili sauce, the rancid aroma piercing my nostrils. Returning it, I went back to the window and pried it open to retrieve some water. Being careful not to collect too many debris, I picked the mug up off of the windowsill and dipped it into what used to be a flower box. 
 
 I returned to the desk, pouring the water into the can. I swished it around trying to retrieve as much of the contents as I could, then took a sip of the disgusting solution. Holding back the desire to gag, I set the solution back down. 
 
 I looked back to the window, the smell of the seared landscape fresh from the recent rain. The smell that reminded me every day, nothing would ever be the same. I never understood that sentiment until it happened. 
 
 Returning my attention back to the microphone, I pressed the button that had become so worn down from my countless efforts to reach anyone. My need to be choosy had long been eradicated, at a certain point I realized I'd rather be murdered than spend another day alone. 
 
 I recited the oration I had burned into my mind; `` Hello. I am a survivor of the apocalypse that occurred in 2015. If anyone can hear this, I am located at the Radio Station Office in Virginia Beach, near the 264 and 64 Interchange. From there, go east and take the 15A exit to Greenwich road, and I am on Ivy court.'' 
 
 Taking a breath, I continued trying to keep my speech clear and audible; `` If you can hear this, respond on frequencies of 30-300 Hz. I have shelter, electricity, and enough food t-'' 
 
 I paused. I got up and rummaged through all my things. Boxes, crates, closets. I looked through everything, and then I looked again. I already knew what I would find: nothing. I looked anyways. Detached, I walked slowly towards the microphone, and took a seat, glancing at the putrid can of chili water. 
 
 `` S... sorry about that... I have enough food to.. uhh... to last for a few.... for a few days. Please. uh, please respond. I'm.. just so fucking *lonely*!'' 
 
 Choking back tears and breaking my own superficial procedure, I attempted to compose myself and stammered; `` If anyone, literally anyone can hear me, I need *someone*. I've been alone for more months than I can count, I do n't know what to do anymore, I'm scared. Please, I'm begging you. I've been doing this for so long, it's all been for nothing. I've experienced failure day in and out, again and again. Anyone...'' 
 
 My face became hot, and my chest tingling. I slammed the table, screaming into the microphone `` WHY? WHY WO N'T YOU ANSWER? WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS? I DID N'T DO ANYTHING WRONG! I did n't do anything...'' 
 
 I was broken. Sobbing on the table for God knows how long. `` fuck you..'' I stuttered out. `` fuck you, fuck you fuck you FUCK YOU FUCK YOU!'' I shouted, slamming my hands against the table, as everything clattered atop it. 
 
 My eyes filled with tears, I stopped lying to myself. This was really it. I wiped my face, feeling like a golf ball was stuck in my throat. I looked around the room, and I saw it. The can, spilled onto the floor. In reality, it probably did n't matter anyways. The only purpose that served was a slap in the face to my endeavor. 
 
 My eyes drifted, focusing on the lid, sharp jagged edges glistening from the dreary light entering the window. 
 
 
 *** 
 
 This is my first time doing something like this. Any advice would be appreciated, not sure how much I should put here in this... footnote?
