My name is johnny riddle,
And I never meant to survive.
Exactly one month ago I had an encounter with death, looked her right in the eyes.
Why I,
Continue to thrive,
When everyone else in the shipwreck that night
Died.
264 passengers in total.
263 of them gone.
It makes no sense, I was on
The SS Amber along with the rest
But I seemed to have passed some nonexistent test
That never ceases to perplex
in thinking of what comes next.
What do I do as the only one still here?
I can't let
This one event
Prevent
Me from moving on.
If only the other people in my town were as strong.
They ignore me, shun me, as if I'm not even there.
I know it is because they wish their loved ones from the ship wreck had survived, they think it's not fair.
But do they believe that I do not care?
I can't answer the question of why I'm still here.
But I also can't spend every waking moment quaking with fear.
Still, it would be nice to have a conversation.
Or any type of interaction or destination
To go, somewhere to be,
Somewhere to see,
But that won't happen-because it's me.
I won't get mad at anyone here, there won't be a fight or any type of showdown.
But I am living in complete solitude, it's like living in a ghost town.
It's been one month since the accident and I hear they are holding a conference to discuss it.
I go and want to listen without any sort of reluctance.
I stand in the back, and as usual no one pays any attention to my existence.
I've given up trying to change this, I now have no persistence
To put up any resistance.
A reporter begins to speak, and more people gather at the door.
"We are gathered here to talk about the SS Amber Shipwreck on October 26th, 1944"
I tune him out and look at the people surrounding me, some crying, some looking at their feet.
"We would like to take a minute of silence to pay our respects" then he waits a beat.
"Again, I would like to say sorry for anyone who has family that was on this ship, anyone that was in this.
And before our moment of silence, just one final statistic:
"Out of the 264 passengers on the SS Amber, this is news that we dread:
There were no survivors that night, everyone aboard the ship is dead."
My blood turns cold and my heart turns to lead.
How can he say this? There must be a mistake.
How can I prove this? What action can I take?
I move from the back of the room, trampling those in my path.
Except no one moves in the slightest, no one is effected by my wrath.
I stand right in front of the reporter and grab him by the collar.
And with this my hope turns smaller
Because he doesn't so much as flinch.
And as I move closer, he doesn't move back an inch.
He begins to speak one final time,
and still does not acknowledge any sort of presence of mine.
"Before we all leave we would like to read off the names of the deceased and light a candle in their honor."
As he says this, I start to relax, start to become calmer.
This is how I will prove this is all a hoax, some sort of game.
He will read off the people who died in the shipwreck, and he will not say my name.
He begins to read off the names, but I'm not listening.
I'm nervous for what's to come, my hands are shaking and my forehead is glistening.
I count as he reads off 30, 40, 50 names off the list,
Making sure there was no name he said that I could have missed.
He names 100, 200, and then 60 more.
Just a few more names until I know my destiny, until I know what's in store.
"Margaret Moore,"
He reads.
She's number 261.
"Ryan Johnson," how much longer until this is done?
"Ginny Collins," he says, and that's 263.
"Those are all of the names, you can all go, thank you for listening to me.
I am overcome what joy, I knew it I'm free!
This is proof that things will be
Different, because I knew it, he was wrong, he had to be-
"Excuse me." He says, and people look back at him, the way they had come.
"I don't know how this happened, but I seem to have missed someone.
He must have been overlooked somehow, his name was in the very middle:
The last on the list of the deceased is Johnny, Johnny Riddle."
I watch as a candle is lit, in honor, in honor of my death,
And I watch intently to see what happens next.
The candle blows out, and the smoke is lifted and begins to take flight,
Being carried by the wind, far, far away, in the waning daylight.