• For Colin la Guardia, the last time he felt truly happy - the kind of happy you could describe to friends without getting odd looks - before the end of the world was this: standing ankle-deep in a patch of dry crabgrass, hands reluctantly clamped to the handle of his father's vintage '93 lawnmower already damp with sweat, his dark brown eyes squinting in the face of a relentless summer sun that threatened to chip away at his carefully cultivated ghost tan, formed from spending most of the daytime and all of the nighttime in the dark sobriety of his parents' attic.

    That time was one of the few moments Colin's father forced him into the outside world, to breathe in air that was fresh and not circulated by the rotors of his computer's built-in miniature fans. As usual, it involved manual labor. His parents - Joe and Alice, the factory worker and the domestic mom, one with a technical degree and the other a major in that classic field of 'Mrs' - were absolutely rubbish when it came to technology like a lawn mower or certain kitchen appliances when they broke down and needed repair. After all, Colin had taken manual repair classes in high school; it was the only alternative to another year of physical education, another year of feeling like a complete slob and loser and repressing the need to curl up into a ball in the far corner of the gym while wearing too-short shorts and scream. And if the work made him a tiny bit fitter, shrunk his waistline by half a centimeter, well, there was another bonus all together.

    Colin couldn't imagine the skies burnt and black, the countless homes that made up the quiet suburb he called home smashed and broken. He had a hard enough time imagining his own future: a week from here, a month, a year, a decade from the moment he closed the attic door, turned on the computer, turned off the lights, and shut out the rest of the world.

    After all, Colin was an outcast. A freak. Freaks and outcasts didn't have lofty aspirations or dreams to reach for with high hopes. They were too busy keeping their head low, staying out of unnecessary confrontations. They lived as non-entities, forced to live out their repressed wants and desires through other mediums. As soon as the grass was cut, Colin would beat a hasty retreat in his one size too small flip-flops into the house and back into his room to join his fellow freakish men (and women) at the local online hang-outs: chat communities, instant message clients, image forums. The familiar logo of the four-leafed clover meant only one thing - that he was not alone.

    Until then, Colin would have to deal with his father Joe's antique of a grass cutter, gave it one more kick before pushing it along an untrimmed stripe of lawn. Against the pale blue backdrop of sky, he could see each surrounding little house clearly, each one with its own scene playing out in their respective area, a small tableau of suburban life in a small town. Colin knew everyone's name, what they looked like, their family history, et cetera; it seemed to be Mrs Alice la Guardia's mission to talk about the daily life occurrences of any citizen in a three-mile radius. Ergo, Colin became well-informed with the same lack of human contact, as usual.

    Next door on the left, the Smiths were teaching their fifteen year old daughter how to drive. At the moment, the dad sat in the passenger seat and watched with visible trepidation as his girl studied the layout of buttons and levers before her. It was all Greek to Colin, naturally; outcasts didn't drive, they made other people drive for them, do the daily chores they needed done that required contact with other human beings - strangers. On the opposite house, two old ladies who called themselves the Jonas Sisters reclined in their sixties-era lawn chairs, wearing one-piece bathing suits and large jeweled sunglasses and chatting to each other like typical little biddies of their age.

    (Did Colin had grandparents? Aunts? Uncles? Little baby cousins to tussle with and teach how to play cards? He didn't know; he hadn't been to a family function in almost four years, and their parents were unusually mum on the whole thing, especially around the holidays.)

    Across the street, several of the neighbor girls were splashing about in an over sized blow-up pool the oldest's father had set up an hour earlier. They had known each other since the first grade and had recently gone to a pop concert together, coming home around two in the morning with suspicious headaches and stomach aches. Colin didn't understand girls, so he never asked after it. Too many confusing emotions, too much potential for rejection. 'Cry more!' cried the chorus in his head. They resembled photo shopped snapshots and British 80's pop stars, and their collective voice was both robotic and emotive. It was the sound of one lonely man thinking.

    There were other families and couples in the suburb: the newlywed black couple who had just moved in from the city; the real estate agent with her constantly changing roster of boyfriends; the aging hippies who were too old to rock and roll and too young to collect retirement dues. And Colin knew every one of them. He flirted briefly with several ideas, like chatting up the golden glamor girls and talking about old movies or joining the makeshift block party forming around the plastic pool. But like every flake flirtation in human history, it quickly fell through in his head, disintegrating into a Escher-esque mess of denial and frustration while the chorus sang louder: 'Cry more! Cry more! Yes, really! Yes, really!'

    Colin really, really wanted to go inside. With great relief he saw that his chore was done, which was good. The sun looked as if it was inching closer to the surface of the earth, inch by inch, and the headlights of the cars slowly passing by on the street began to glow red and growl, threatening to n** and tear at his body.

    He stumbled blindly through the front door and up the stairs, abandoning the deactivated lawn mower for his father to push back into the garage. The stale coolness of the air conditioner and the feel of his unwashed bedding on his bare skin comforted him, made him feel partially whole again. Here was his world, the throne to his kingdom. And let no man or god tear him away.

    'Cry more! Cry more!'

    Sounds of laughter and crying and shouting and clapping filtered in through the open door. Colin shut his eyes, playing the game he had been playing since he was six. The rules were that if you closed your eyes long enough, everything bad around you would go away. The outside sounds were joined by a car alarm and several barking dogs. He screwed his eyes shut tighter and tighter, until he felt like his eyelids would violently peel off if he went any farther.

    Colin couldn't imagine burnt skies or bombed buildings, but he didn't have to. He already had his own private hell, inside his head, his and his alone. It was the bottomless dark pit that sat inside his head, that glowered and shifted at the slightest disturbance, threatening to eat him whole. Slowly but surely, it would have his way with him. It would kill him.

    He counted the days until that time came. And then, release. And then, nothing.

    t.b.c.