I was raised for The End. My parents prepared me, day in and day out, waiting for the devil to be cast down. I, a ruined life, a life of vibrant fears. A lonely life, where every stranger is my mortal enemy.

I’ve tried to kill myself before the three headed beasts did. That’s not a way for a child to live. I made it to adulthood, at least in height, but the beasts followed me.

Jolting to wake at 2 a.m. is usually a night of terrors. The terrors drive me naked out of bed, running through an unfamiliar house, breaking things. In these fearful moments the cracking of the earth is so loud, I can’t hear the sounds of life: the a/c kicking on, my partner’s snoring, the ticking clock, a leaky faucet.

This 2 a.m. is different. I say goodbye to the back of my partner’s sleeping head. I make my way to the lower section of our February chilled pool and float in its icy stillness. I crave finality. I crave peace. I’ve done nothing with my life but wait.

I haven’t made it to The End, I’ve met it in the middle.