I'd always thought my world would fall apart all at once, the horizon falling off into the sky and the world crumbling away, a circle of destruction moving swiftly inward until I was trapped, surrounded by a noose, until I fell away, too. I always imagined that if everything went to hell – and I never really doubted that it would – the process would be swift, elegant, beautiful in a broken sort of way. I'd always dreamed that when the time came to die in misery, I'd look beautiful while doing it.
These were the sorts of things I'd fantasize, as a kid. I had the normal dreams, too – I wanted to be an astronaut, and a cowgirl, and a beautiful pony, but I also wanted to survive the Apocalypse and live the rugged, sexy life of a traveler through dystopia. I knew I'd handle it with aplomb. My hair would curl perfectly and when I finally met a stranger along the path, when I finally found another living person, they'd fall instantly in love. I'd know who to blame for the end of the world, and how to punish them when I found them; I'd know how to survive like it was what I was born to do.
I'd always thought my world would fall apart all at once, when at last it did; that I'd see the storm coming and seconds later watch it pass, feeling invigorated and terrified and alive. But when the world did fall to shit, it wasn't like that at all. The world fell apart on me slowly, gradually – I lost a lamppost here, a handshake there, lost the horizon one mountain at a time. If there was a storm, I missed it all together.
I almost regret that.