A WARM EMBRACE

OLAMILEKAN

Darkness.

That was all that I could see.

There was emptiness around me that went on and on to infinity. I floated without weight in this emptiness, lost, free. There was no sound, no light, no sensation—only the suffocating nothingness of emptiness. I could not see. I could not hear. I could not even make a sound.

It felt like I'd been here for years. Centuries, perhaps. Maybe I'd been here all along, trapped in some sort of perpetual purgatory of nothing.

First, I panicked. Fear rose inside of me like the tide, constricting my throat even though there wasn't any air to be trapped. But then. something broke. I stopped panicking. An ill, wintry acceptance was what was left. Maybe I was where I was supposed to be. Maybe it was easier this way—isolated from it all, from the hurt, from the ugliness.

Then—

A voice.

It sounded everywhere and nowhere simultaneously, both a whisper and a boom.

"It is the end."

The words reverberated through emptiness, ricocheting from walls that didn't exist, echoing off emptiness.

"It is the end—it is the end—it is the end."

Repeating again and again, the words rising to a louder, faster, more desperate refrain. The blackness shook. My brain wailed.

And—

Light.

Shattering, blinding light.

I gasped, air filling my lungs as my body spasmed to life. My eyes opened, my vision blurry and hazy. The world around me seemed to tilt, and I didn't have any idea where I was.

Then, as my breathing began to regulate, I glanced around.

White walls. The relentless beep of a machine. A slight antiseptic smell. A number of medical machines loomed beside my bed.

A hospital.

I exhaled sharply.

I was alive.

Two individuals to my right sat in chairs. An old woman and man—both dark-complexioned, their faces stretched wide in relief. The man was bald, dark-skinned, clean-shaven, with an ash-colored shirt and black trousers. The woman lighter in complexion, long black braids, wore a purple Yoruba outfit covered in yellow flower designs.

My parents.

The moment they saw me sit up, they sprang from their chairs. My mother rushed toward me, tears brimming in her eyes, and wrapped me in a warm, desperate embrace.

"Thank goodness…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "You've finally woken up."

I hesitated before returning the hug, my arms weak but firm. "Yes, Mum… I'm awake."

My father did not speak for a moment. His expression was unreadable, but I knew—he was struggling to articulate the right words. He was always portrayed as a hard, pragmatic man, but at heart, he was a reserved, loving father.

Finally, he cleared his throat and said something.

"Welcome back, Mr. Olamilekan." His voice was steady but held a rare softness. "You've been unconscious for seven whole days. But thank goodness… you're finally awake."

Seven days?

I barely had time to process before he turned on his heel and walked out of the room. That was just like him—never one for long emotional moments.

My mother pulled back, holding my face in her hands as she stared at me with concern. "How are you doing?"

I nodded, swallowing. "I'm fine, Ma."

She smiled in relief and touched my cheek gently. "Wait here. I'll have the doctor call you to check on you. If everything's all right, hopefully, you'll be discharged immediately."

She left the room, and for the first time since I had come to, I felt that something was wrong.

The atmosphere wasn't right.

Outside of the hospital room, I could hear it—sniffles, sobs, hysterical yelling. Panic. Cries of agony ran through the corridors. The entire hospital was in chaos.

But beneath the pain and suffering, I could hear something else—something jarringly incongruous.

Laughter.

I furrowed my brows.

I had to see what was going on.

I hauled myself into standing, my quivering legs advancing. I lurching crawled to the window.

What lay outside sent ice through my blood.

The streets were… empty. Silent. Not quiet—but deserted. As if life itself had been drained from the world. The roads, which had once been filled with people, were empty, and the few automobiles that remained stood in odd stillness, their windows shattered, their bodies corroded as if they'd been there for decades.

And then I saw him.

A dark boy stood in front of the image in the window. His pointed jaw, massive shoulders, and unbrushed taper fade cut haircut made him look nearly stranger. He was sick—too thin, weak. His cheekbones were jutting, his body gaunt, his clothes hanging loose around him as if he had been drained.

Then, his eyes—

They changed.

His once black-hued irises turned to bright, unnatural yellow.

I winced, stepping back from the window. I was breathing hard as I stared at my own reflection.

"That's… me," I gasped, my voice a mere whisper.

My hands trembled as I lifted them, forcing one eye open farther to examine the color. The golden light pulsed, beating. 

"What the hell…?

There was a sharp clack that roused me out of my daydream. I spun around as the door creaked open, and a blue and white-striped top and bottom-clad fair-complexioned man with glasses came in, his white lab coat draped over his back. My mother followed him.

— — — —

I was discharged a few minutes later, after undergoing a series of tests.

I stepped outside, taking my first fresh air in days. Behind me, the white hospital building loomed, a large sign hanging above the entrance reading T&P Medical Center.

I walked to my father's black SUV, parked at the curb. Just as I was reaching out to grab the back door handle—

A phrase echoed in my mind.

"It is the end."

I froze.

That voice. I had heard it somewhere. But where?

I tried to recall, but my father's voice snapped me around. "Are you going to get in the car, or do you want to stand there the rest of the day?" His voice was a bit irritated.

I exhaled, shook my head, and got into the car.

On the way back home, I gazed out the window—and my stomach churned.

The world I'd grown up with was gone.

Bldgs had collapsed, their rubble scattered everywhere like broken bones. The green lushness was gone, replaced by blackened, empty land that seemed to have an otherworldly atmosphere. Burnt buildings lined roadways, burnt shells that seemed to whisper destruction.

And then, the most frightful of all—

A towering spike of ice.

About 2.7 kilometers wide, as tall as a skyscraper. It rose into the sky, glinting in the dark sunlight. Beautiful. Horrendous.

But as we passed by, neither of my parents did a thing. They didn't even blink. They didn't stare in horror or amazement.

It was like this. this nightmare was normal to them.

— — — —

And then we came home.

A gray duplex with navy blue accents.

I got out of the car and made my way up to the front door. The moment I pushed it open—

"Brother!"

My younger brother Joshua came running up to me, his face alight with enthusiasm. He was dressed in a plain white shirt with an enormous "Z" logo—a trendy fashion brand—and swept me up in his arms before suddenly wrenched away.

"Damn… not cool," he growled.

I laughed. "You try too hard to be cool, you know that?"

"Whatever." He rolled his eyes and flopped onto the couch.

My mother's voice wafted from the kitchen. "You have to eat. Look how skinny you've gotten."

I barely responded. I wasn't thinking.

I headed straight to my room, sat on my bed, and buried my face in my hands.

I thought of him.

The boy that I had killed.

His parents. His family. Did they know? Were they searching for him? Or had they already found his burnt body?

The

weight of it all crashed down on me.

I arched back, looking up at the ceiling, sinking in guilt in my head—

Until exhaustion took over.

And I fell into darkness once more.