Personal end of the world

She passed a newsstand. It stood on a corner. An ordinary, gray one, cluttered with tons of magazines, tabloids, journals, and the filthy ramblings of drunken editors. As usual, she didn't glance in its direction, moving briskly among the passersby. Down the sidewalk leading straight to the city park. Down a street dominated by pubs and restaurants, small shops selling kitschy souvenirs offering a surprisingly wide selection. There was even a torture museum, in front of which stood a hooded man with a large sign. There were secondhand clothing stores, Indian clothing stores, elegant clothing, bridal wear, and subcultural items. There were tables with various stones, cords, pendants, rings, and other artifacts of silver, gold, or any other material that was, according to the salesperson, 100% genuine and one-of-a-kind.

It was always like this on this street. Vultures waited for naive customers onto whom any kitsch could be sold. She walked quickly, ignoring them. Her gaze wandered thoughtfully over the remains of the city's defensive wall, which loomed at the end of the alley. The half-gate, with only one wing of what must once have been an impressively massive and beautifully ornate door, seemed like a mirage. Although the air was frosty and fiercely attacked her exposed cheeks and neck with tiny needles of cold, the image before her eyes swirled slightly and blurred stubbornly. She stopped and took a deep breath of the cool air. She had been feeling increasingly weak lately. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, and when she opened them, the world was no longer dancing. The doctor had told her not to overexert herself. Her father had repeated the same.

She glanced toward the gate. Just behind her, a quiet, rather sad voice whispered something about the end of the world. She frowned and turned away. She met the gaze of enormous brown eyes set far too close together on the wrinkled face of a short man. He regarded her with a faint smile, then nodded and repeated his words. And this time, she didn't quite understand them. He turned and walked away. She did the same.

It took her much longer than usual to reach the park. But she was finally there. She could sit on a bench near one of her favorite oak trees and observe people calmly, detached from the world, remaining on its fringes, observing them, their fleeting dilemmas and the hurried glances at their watches. She liked doing this. She liked watching them live. She envied them a little. Their carefreeness. And yet, she wondered how many of them were like her. How many of them knew exactly how many days they had left to live. She no longer measured them in months. She had long since stopped measuring them in years. She had days left. A dozen, a few. Not enough.

Her personal end of the world was coming soon. A completely private one. Intimate. She had planned everything. When she no longer had the strength to walk, when every breath was a desperate struggle, she would lie down and fall asleep. Yes, she wanted to die in her sleep. Peacefully. Pass away silently. Without whimpering, cursing, or praying. She wanted them to find her with a smile on her face. Because, despite everything, she was content with her life. Perhaps it was too short. Perhaps she had been denied so many pleasures, as well as spared so many problems. She recalled Jan Kochanowski's "Laments," the last one especially sticking in her mind. She wanted to be perceived as Urszula, whom God had spared suffering on earth and taken to himself. There she would wait for her loved ones. It sounded a bit idyllic, a bit exaggerated. She laughed at herself.

No, it wasn't like that. Her faith in God was too weak to think that way. Her life wasn't bad. All in all, it was quite normal. Until the illness was diagnosed. Afterward, she tried desperately to maintain this normalcy. But pretending everything was fine was pointless. It was a foolish game. Honesty with herself and the world suited her much better.

Every day she got out of bed, looked in the mirror, and told herself that today was a beautiful day. Maybe even a good day to leave. Every day she was prepared to close her eyes and never open them again.

This was her personal end of the world.

As she walked home, she remembered that short man mumbling something vague about the end of the world. She stopped at a newsstand on the corner. Lost in thought, she looked at the sky. She frowned slightly.

Right behind her, in front of her, and all around her, people began screaming. Hysterically, loudly, some cursing, then scattering in all directions. There were also those who, like her, stood staring at the sky. Pushed by those who fled in unknown directions. Heads tilted back, watching the dance of colors in the sky amidst the pale white clouds. She tore her gaze away for a moment and looked down at the street. What she saw was a veritable apocalypse of panic. People, unsure of what was happening, didn't know what to do. Chaos reigned. Screams grated on her ears. She looked up at the sky again.

She felt pity. For no one in particular, simply pity. This was supposed to be her personal end of the world, not everyone's. It was unfair. She didn't want them to die with her.

The sky began to return to its natural colors. The screams faded. More and more pairs of eyes stared at the rapidly changing sky.

She closed her eyes for a moment. She wanted to breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps the short man with brown eyes had been mistaken? Perhaps the end of the world had been postponed for unknown reasons? Perhaps technical difficulties?...

She laughed at her thoughts. She didn't open her eyes again.