The World Dies First

Short Story by Renley & Tiffany Chu | Literary Fiction

Hello and welcome to the Fiction Section of Notes from the Town Hermit. I write literary and slipstream fiction and fantasy focusing on themes of identity and what it means to be human through a lyrical and poetic writing style. Subscribe for free to enjoy more stories.

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AI-generated with Midjourney

Shimmering light—that's what he saw all around him—bright lights that didn't hurt his eyes at all. If anything, the welcoming warmth had him feeling at peace.

The state of stasis he felt—what he imagined a dead man walking would feel—was surprisingly crisp and powerful, like the air around him. He liked it up here, though. The sounds of city life faded whenever he climbed the steps to the roof.

He mused about how so many people probably pondered their last few moments, and although he could never be sure, these indeed felt as though they were his.

He thought about leaving behind letters—letters to those he loved, and those he liked, and those he disliked and even hated.

Maybe he'd even write some to the mundane everyday acquaintances, like the barista at his favorite coffee place, or the lady who walked her cute little dogs every evening before the sun set.

Or maybe he'd only write three letters to those he held with the utmost love, respect, and care.

Like Dorothy from the bookstall an hour away. Despite her surly demeanor, she'd made it her mission to seek out the most intimidating titles for him to devour. The talks he had with the woman the age of what his mom would have been were always thought-provoking, and her tendency to hide some wise advice in between them always astonished him.

On a blustery Tuesday like any other, but fated as the last, fingers brushed as she passed him Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet.

“Still devouring one a week I see. Always knew you'd turn out fine.” Her silver-gold bun bobbed with conviction. “Although maybe too fine for nosy neighbors, hm?”

He forced a chuckle. If only she knew the turmoil brewing behind his composed smile these last months. She shoved another stack across the scuffed counter before he could reply.

“Hmm, Sartre? And Human, All Too Human, Nietzsche?” He thumbed the worn covers. How did she always seem to sense his struggles? "You fed me grand ideas since my youth.” He met her knowing gaze. “I’ve clung to them on the long road since.”

Dorothy crossed her wiry arms. “Grand? Ha! I've only given kindling for that mind of yours. You burned your own path. Now keep warm out there.”

He hesitated then. A small crease formed in the corner of Dorothy's mouth.

“What is it, child?”

The crease deepened as he bit his lip. “Say the burning merely illuminated what was out of reach for the likes of me. Say it awakened the hunger without showing a path forward. What then?”

Dorothy's hands twitched as they rested on her crossed forearms, drawing his eyes to them. He could not tell if she meant to embrace him or strike him.

She did neither.

“Don't speak nonsense,” she said. “Which of us hasn't seen our share of suffering? Leave the past in the past. Now off with you!”

Not looking her in the eye, he swiped the books off the counter into his bag and swung it over his shoulder. He opened his mouth as he pushed the door out into the cold, but the words died on his lips. The moment had passed.

Perhaps it was all good now the hard part was over. Maybe moving on wasn't as easy. Maybe it all still danced and sang loudly inside his head, halting the progress that was now demanded since everything was okay now.

Maybe that's why his second letter would go to Carter.

The man who had stood beside him when he had thought he wouldn’t be able to move on from had happened to him. It comforted him to know he had something like a brother through those times. Carter, who had often found him slumped over the desk, eyelids leaden, ink staining calloused fingers.

“Still toiling away at ungodly hours I see. But you can rest now; the proposal looks damn impressive thanks to you. We'll make this quarter work, just have some faith.” Carter clasped his shoulder on the way out.

He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, lingering over those last comforting words. Had he leaned too heavily upon his partner's steady confidence? Selfish indeed—he should bear the worries too.

Carter kept coaxing him to take more responsibility, to step out of his shadow. “You’re more than capable. Don’t let the past define you.” That wry smile echoed even now. “I won't be here forever, y’know.”

He remembered the night he walked into files and papers lying torn and strewn upon the floor, and Carter leaning bent over a desk, chest heaving. When he put a hand on Carter's shoulder, his usually-calm partner wheeled around and shoved him to the floor.

“It's all gone.” Carter's voice rasped.

He froze. He could not hear his thoughts above the thunderous beating of his heart. “How?” he asked, finally.

Carter made no response, only sank to the floor, fingers clutching at a stray paper. He joined Carter, gently plucked the paper from his convulsive hands, and began gathering the crumpled documents.

But for many hours after he could not stop trembling.

Could he have done more? Would it have mattered?

The memory dissolved, but the weight of it lingered like a ghost. The ticking clock pulled him back to the present, each second an indifferent judgment upon his shoulder.

Well, Carter was around forever; he saw his ghost in every corner. And he found it amusing, in a grim sort of way, how forever had always been in his hands, how forever always referred to him. In the end, it actually was.

He held the power over forever, however much of a detriment that was; it was up to those around him.

Maybe the third letter would go to all that wasn't but could've been. A letter to circumstance and time. A letter writing down all the things that led him to where he was now, for he couldn't write it to people who had already crossed over.

And that was entirely circumstance's fault.

From the crash that stole his parents, to the institutions that stole the rest of his innocence he had followed the path circumstance laid before him until it broke him down.

The blares of car horns below penetrated his thoughts for a moment. The sound reminded him of those points of intersection when Dorothy or Carter had stepped in to his life and pulled him from the precipice. For all of that, he ended up on this roof in the end anyway. Others would mourn, yes, but perhaps more for having tried to save him and failed. He had no ability to relieve the burden of those he cared for most, only take advantage of their unwarranted generosity.

He stepped closer to the edge, feeling the cool night air against his face. The city sprawled before him, a tapestry of light and shadow. Each pinprick of brightness represented a life, a story, a world he could never truly be part of. The wind whispered around him, carrying the faint echoes of laughter and conversation from the streets below.

He also mused how it was slightly unfair that people would think him selfish.

Why would he even write a letter to those he was going to leave behind, after all? To those he was going to cause much grief?

Why would he, if he was selfish?

Maybe he was. But it was fair. It was fair because for dead men walking, the world dies for them before they die for the world.

And that, that was entirely up to the world and how it had all the power to stop this. But it didn't, for they were deader than he felt when he jumped off the ledge to join them.

Related:

An Excerpt from Renley Chu's Cryptic Clockwork

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The Story Behind the Story

Ren published a version of this story on his writing Instagram account in January 2021, originally titled Deader. He drew a lot of inspiration from music, and this one was associated with the song, “I Will Follow You Into the Dark,” by Death Cab for Cutie—in particular, the lines:

If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the "no"s on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark

For someone who had lost so much at such a young age, he was understandably preoccupied with death. In this story, it is implied the unnamed narrator has suffered and lost enough that he takes his own life in the end.

In revising this story, I fleshed out the scenes between the narrator and his two companions who acted as anchors in his life, building on those scenes to show how the narrator came to his final decision. I also expanded on his introspection at the end before his final act. I retained most of Ren’s original language, only adding in details and correcting grammar. This is how I’ve treated all his stories in Revenir.

Allow me to draw your attention to the irony of the last two lines:

And that, that was entirely up to the world and how it had all the power to stop this. But it didn’t, for they were deader than he felt when he jumped off the ledge to join them.

First, the narrator has gone up to the roof, far away from the people below—far from where real life happens. His sense of disconnection leads him to physically remove himself. By the end, he jumps off to “join the world” below. The thing is, of course, the world isn’t dead in the actual sense. And it’s worth pondering over, that this character feels the only way to become part of the world is through death.

It gives a glimpse into the mind of those who struggle with mental illness and the way it isolates them from the rest of the world.

I started revising this story early February this year: five months of head bashing. I don’t know if I’ve improved much, as Ren’s original story stands well on its own, but I gave it a go anyways. I included Ren’s version in the original anthology, even though it hadn’t been on our list. Unlike the other stories planned for the collection, this one doesn’t have any fantasy elements and is set in the modern world. At the time, I only wanted all of his completed works to be published, and that was the only way I knew how to do it. It’s not included in the new edition; I’m glad I’ve made a home for it here.

Ren’s Original Version

Shimmering light—that’s what he saw all around him—shimmering bright lights that didn’t hurt his eyes at all. If anything, the welcoming warmth had him feeling at peace.

This sight helped him through the otherwise state of stasis of what he thought: a dead man walking felt like the air: cold, crisp, and powerful. Not even the aroma of coffee he had in his hand could breach his senses.

He mused about how so many people probably pondered their last few moments, and although he could never be sure, these indeed felt as though they were his.

He thought about leaving behind letters—letters to those he loved, and those he liked, and those he disliked and even hated.

Maybe he’d even write some to the mundane everyday acquaintances, like the barista at his favorite coffee place, or the lady who walked her cute little dogs every evening before the sun set.

Or maybe he’d only write three letters to those he held with the utmost love, respect, and care.

Like Dorothy from the bookstall an hour away from his apartment. The woman always made it her mission to find the most intimidating of books for him to devour.

The talks he had with the woman the age of what his mom would’ve been were always quite thought-provoking, and her tendency to hide some wise advice in between them always astonished him.

He was grateful to have her. To have her look after him from his unruly teenage years to the man was now.

“Hmm, turned out fine, huh?” she’d tease, shoving a pile of books for him to pick from.

Supposedly it had turned out fine, and from someone else’s perspective, perhaps it was fine.

Perhaps it was all good now that the hard part was over. Maybe moving on wasn’t as easy. Maybe it all still danced and sang loudly inside his head, halting the progress that was now demanded since everything was okay now.

Maybe that’s why his second letter would maybe go to Carter.

The man who had stood beside him when he had thought he wouldn’t be able to move from what now befell him. It was, in a way, comforting to know he had a brother through those times.

He remembered working late at night, drafting future projects for him, looking for any sign that things might not fail this time in Carter’s demeanor, and how in return Carter would reassure him.

A bit selfish of him, he thought now. But he was glad he didn’t have to be the bigger shoulder carrying the weight of it all.

Maybe he was meant to help only, by carrying the failures for them so the business could flourish under Carter’s success.

He remembered Carter urging him to take on more important roles. He remembered Carter saying, “I won’t be here forever y’know.” And he remembered laughing and telling him he would.

Well, Carter was around for forever. And he found it amusing how forever had always been in his hands, how forever always referred to him, and in the end it actually was.

He held the power over forever, however much of a detriment that was; it was up to those around him.

Maybe the third letter would go to all that wasn’t but could’ve been. A letter to circumstance and time. A letter writing down all the things that led him to where he was now, for he couldn’t write it to people who had already crossed over.

And that was entirely circumstance’s fault.

He also mused how it was slightly unfair that people would think him selfish.

Why would you even write a letter to those you were going to leave behind, after all? To those he was going to cause much grief?

Why would he, if he was selfish?

Maybe he was. But it was fair. It was fair because for dead men walking, the world dies for them before they die for the world.

And that, that was entirely up to the world and how it had all the power to stop this. But it didn’t, for they were deader than he felt when he jumped off to join them.