I am writing a suicide note, though I’ve already committed suicide.
Well, to be clear, that’s only a small part of what I’ve done.
I’ve committed omnicide.
I am the first, and therefore the last, human to do so.
I always knew there would be a way. I held onto that idea desperately, knowing in my heart that I would end us. I spent a good fortune finding the book to summon Him. I made a point of getting to all the right teachers and finding all the right schools to make sure the translations were correct.
My first attempts, however, failed miserably. I didn’t make the circle correctly; I didn’t read the passages correctly; I didn’t do anything you would assume a rare mind like mine would do. Still, piece by piece, I managed. I held on. Finally after a lifetime of trial, I was able to instigate the end of all human things.
Usually, a writer will say the end of Earth would be ‘The End Times,’ or ‘The End of Days,’ thinking that we are at the center of the universe and that our experience validates existence. But there are no special things human experience affords. Another creature with opposable thumbs and self-awareness will rise up and have their go somewhere. The dice of the universe will roll enough times that it will happen again. Everything will go right on, barely noticing.
In the flat next to mine, they’re screaming. I wish they wouldn’t. The apartment on the other side of mine went silent hours ago. Much more pleasant.
But that was never humanity. We were never dignified things. Always scrounging, always looking for the next toehold to hang onto in desperation. Before too long we would’ve gotten off of the world and spread ourselves across the stars.
So odd to think about.
Now, the fact that any human would write a manual to call Him and destroy humanity just shows how foolish we were. We didn’t burn this book, rip its pages, or simply leave it to crumble. Instead we kept the book protected through ages, and wrote others that explained its secrets. With all entropy swirling around us, this book that sealed our fates still made its way down lovingly into my hands.
I can still see a few places lit in the darkness from my window. Some may burrow deep within the Earth. But He’ll find them too, and soon.
This writing is likely the last thing that a human will ever do. Millennia of evolution, development, centuries of war and famine, art and love, all lead to this moment and these words.
The one thing that all humans loved was a story. Good stories have to have an end. I’ve written one for everyone. Even for my neighbors, who are quiet now. They’ve likely let go, understanding there’s little point in holding onto life for a few more hopeless hours.
This letter may float through the void. It might even find its way into the hands of some other creature, one that could be better or worse than us.
More than likely, I am simply talking to myself at the end and this scrap of paper will be read by no one but my own eyes.
The pinnacle of humanity, right in my hands.
Isn’t that something?