Trapped

Imagine, if you will, a scenario. It's happening right now, as you read this. A man is sitting in a bathroom somewhere, doomed. There are no supplies with him. The facility to which the bathroom belongs has been invaded by hordes of hideous monsters. It's not important what they are, really, nor does it matter what they look like. All that matters is what they do. They kill.

When he first ran into the bathroom, it was not because it was the best place, but because it was the nearest safe place he could think of. He looked at the security feed on the wall, and only when the things started pouring into his area of the facility did he realize that he was trapped with no supplies. Not long after that, the monsters started knocking and smashing against the door, screaming curses in no particular language.

And now, now that he is sure he is doomed, he takes the toilet paper off the dispenser and rolls some out on the sink, letting the rest of the roll fall to the floor. He takes the pen out of his pocket and begins to write. "To whoever finds me here," he scrawls on the paper, "If you are down here and reading this, I suspect that the monsters have been defeated, or have, at least, vacated this facility." He looks back up at the security monitor. "I don't know how they got in. We took every precaution we could." He looks back up at the monitor and draws his gun. He fires, breaking the monitor. Then he continues writing.

"My family is dead. My colleagues are probably dead. Most of the world is dead. I am stuck in here with no rations. Even if the door would hold longer than a few hours, which I highly doubt it would, I would die of starvation." He looks up at the broken monitor, then to the door, then back to the roll. "I have a gun, but I can not possibly fight my way out of this, I don't have enough bullets. I do have one way out, and it takes only one bullet. If I don't take my own life, they will put me through unimaginable pain. It's the only way. I wish it didn't come to this."

He wants to say more, but can't think of anything else to say. He puts the pen down and rips his suicide note off the roll, folding and placing it behind the tap handles. He then puts the gun in his mouth and slowly pulls the trigger.

The man is dead. In the bathroom, the mirror, shattered by a single bullet, is scattered across the room. The door is still. Outside the door and in the empty house, a great silence has grown. And outside the house, a wind blows as the man's family pulls into the driveway.