It once occurred to me that I may not be alone in this city, not forsaken by the rest of the world. But when I picked up the phone of my residence – an abandoned apartment – and attempted to dial any number than may have been of any help in my present situation, I got what I had grown to expect and hate:

“The phone lines leading to and from this city have been made inaccessible to ensure the safety of those on the outside. Please hang up and resume what you were previously doing.”

That was this morning. And the many mornings before it. I’m not entirely sure how many mornings there have been before this, but I’m sure they exceed more than one thousand. I am sure of this because it has been little more than three years since I began following a calendar.

Why am I here? I do not know. My memory fails me, especially  when recalling events that occurred more than a week before.

I remember yesterday’s breakfast, though. A bowl of Lucky Charms, a banana, and a glass of orange juice. There is a place in this city where a massive amount of food is kept frozen for the sake of preservation. I do not know if this was intended for me and my survival. It may just be mere coincidence that I will not go hungry for another ten years. I tend not to question it much. I am simply grateful for this wonderful convenience.

However, I have come to question my own existence. I suppose this is because of my isolation and ailing memory. Sometimes, in the earlier hours of the day, I feel as if I’m not really there. It can’t be avoided, I suppose. If my existence can’t acknowledge by others, who is to say that I truly exist? If my voice can’t be heard as I sing, how can I know my voice is really there? Regardless, if my existence is something palpable to me (and only me), then I must exist within it, and live as if my existence was known to others.

So on this twenty-second day of September, I woke up and ate a breakfast of bread and jam, and then listened to the pre-recorded message that never fails to ensure my isolation. In fact, as I recall, I angrily threw the phone out of a window. The shattering of the glass was of no consequence. No one, save for me, heard it, and who am I to say I heard if I am so unsure of my own existence?

After I recovered from my outburst, I descended to the street to see if I had greatly damaged the phone. To my relief, I had not, and I promptly returned it to its rightful place. The window, however, I could do nothing about, but cover. So I did and proceeded to begin my daily walk.

In a large city, devoid of any life but the colorless grass and my own (if I do indeed exist), there is very little to do. Walking is an ideal pastime in this specific situation for time tends to pass quickly, and my body remains healthy. I suppose as well, that because my memory is the way it is, nothing becomes old to me. Each time I experience something, it feels as new as the first time I experienced it. However, something occurred today that I am sure has never happened before.

I was about three hours into my walk. Perhaps it was around noon. Regardless, payphones occupy several spaces within the confines of this metropolis. They have always remained silent and they have never drawn undue attention to themselves. At that particular moment, that changed.

My pace was slow and my gait inconspicuous, but I must done something to disturb the payphone, for it began ringing loudly. As the city was empty, and there was no noise to halter it, the sound permeated the air and carried on past several intersections.

I stood there, shocked, a few moments before realizing I needed to pick it up. I suppose in a life before this I had experienced the ringing of a telephone and known what to do. So I answered with a simple, “Hello?”

A few moments passed in silence, which gave me time to resolve the awkwardness I felt after hearing my voice so suddenly. A moment later, I could hear a voice speaking.

This wasn’t a natural voice. When it began, it seemed to be two separate voices identical in pitch, but octaves apart. But as speech progressed, the voice warped and twisted, taking on numerous characteristics, some of which disturbed me. Needless to say, the entire situation disturbed me, especially as I tried to comprehend what was being said.

“Hello. How are you today?”

Silence.

“It matters not how you are doing. What matters is that I will tell you what to do, and you will do it.”

“Who is this?”

“That too, means nothing. I must know that you are willing to cooperate with me.”

“Who am I cooperating with? Surely, I must know these things before I can be expected to comply?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot disclose anything to you relating to what will happen. You must do as I say, without question, and without complaint.”

“And if I were to refuse?”

“I can ensure you that if you were to refuse this directive, you could encounter an early end to your life.”

“As far as I’m concerned, my life has already ended, as I cannot recall any part of it.”

“Then what have you to lose? Nothing. What have you to gain? Nothing. Walk across the street.”

Then the voice ended, and was again left in silence. As I had said, this event disturbed me. The randomness of it left me to question if what had happened really did happen. Whether or not it did, I found myself walking across the street.

As I was doing so, an odd thing happened. For one brief moment, the empty streets around me came to life. For one brief moment I saw people going about their business, cars clogging the roadways. For one brief moment I heard the everyday sounds of a bustling metropolis. For one brief moment I felt like a part of something bigger. For one brief moment… I existed. But just as quickly as the moment began, it ended, and I walked the rest of the way to the office complex on the other side of the street.

Once there, I looked up. This building towered some twenty stories before the sky resumed. I was standing directly across from the payphone, so I assumed the voice wanted me to step inside. So I did.

I stepped through the revolving doors, but instead of stepping into a lobby of sorts, I found myself in a supermarket buzzing with activity. This led to me (again) questioning the reality of what was happening. The surreal nature of this was different from the odd event just minutes before. Never before has stepping through a door taken me to somewhere I shouldn’t have been. I decided to look out of the windows to see if at least the outside had remained the same. It had not.

Stretching for infinity was a grassy plain that united with the sky. I’m sure that it was in all directions. It might also be noteworthy that both the sun and the moon were absent from the sky as far as I could tell.

There was music. Jazzy music that made the customers feel right at home as they chose what to spend money on. I had a vague feeling of remembrance at this time. I don’t know what caused it, nor do I know what memory it so faintly unearthed. I simply began walking deeper into the store.

Immediately after I took that first step, the intercom came on. The music ceased and a voice assumed control. This voice was much unlike the one I had encountered on the payphone, yet I was sure they both belonged to the same entity. This voice was benevolent. The kind that could sway one’s mind without effort. Not even a fitful child could resist the soothing nature of this voice.

When it spoke, it was soft, but with authority. “Hello. I am pleased that you made the correct choice.”

“What are you?” Was my monotonous reply.

“You may call me God. Whether or not you refer to me as this is your choice to make. Those who know of me know me by many other names. Allah and Yahweh, among others. I am also aware that there are those who deny my existence. In that regard, I do not exist, nor have I ever, nor will I ever. When I do exist, I am interpreted according to individual ideas, and in that sense, my existence is dissected and shared. Why do you find yourself questioning your own existence?”

To this question I had no immediate response, but one came. “I have used my isolation and memory as an excuse for what is perhaps the degradation of my sanity. I suppose it could be more than that. If only I could remember what my life had been before this empty city, I might know.”

“Would you like you like to remember?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why?”

“Because there must have been something before this emptiness. Unless something before this never existed. Perhaps I am merely a figment of my own imagination.”

“Perhaps you are.” As the voice that called itself God spoke those words, the windows shattered, noticeably but neatly, leaving a pile of glass meticulously contained on the ledges. Not a shard touched the ground. In response to this the entirety of the building and those in it became caught in an explicable vacuum and was compacted into nothing more than a cube.

I was somehow unharmed in this process. I was actually unaware of this event until I was staring at a cube no bigger than the palm of my hand lying in the grass. The grass…

It was beautiful. The grass I had seen within the confines of that damned city had always been devoid of living color. This grass seemed to glow with calm intensity. It was alive. I have also never seen a sky shine such a blue before. The sight was almost enough to bring me to tears. Tears that have not been shed in more than three years. Also, what I had noted before had been true. There was no moon. There was no sun. The grass thrived as beautifully as it was without the sun, and without which the sky still demanded such authority. They existed without something inhibiting their existence.

So, upon realizing this, I took a breath and silently walked into infinity.