This Is It?

The rain falls like a million microscopic hammers on the back of my skull as I meander through the muck-lined streets of the city. The last time that I was as lucid as I am now was back when I was tracking him. The weather was the same, bleak, dreary, and wet, always wet. Soaked to the core. It never ends.

I finally see the city for what it truly is. I always knew that those living here were self-preserving bastards, but I was never really that aware of my surroundings. I mean, yes I knew what street was which and where every building was, but the fact that everything is actually shit was completely lost to me. Peeling paint, rusting frames, and crumbling brick.

Hair plasters my face as I continue to trudge through all of the mud, blood, and beer. Not actual mud, blood, and beer, but I don’t care. It could be true.

Balboa is pretty much gone. It’s been weeks. Nothing. However, I do have one final, last resort.

I don’t put much faith in soothsayers and other paranormal activity. In fact, the only thing that I put any faith in at all is the propensity for egoism that is common among all humans. Man, woman, child. White, Black, Asian, Hispanic. It does not matter. Everyone partakes. Even I used to. That was before I became enlightened.

"Do you understand now?"
"Yes."
"Very good. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going away. I'm going to embrace what you have told me. They are all unworthy, selfish, violent, indulgent swine."

And they are. Every single one of them.

So why am I going to see Madame Maureen? I'm desperate. I've suffered through the bullshit of every other member of this god-forsaken mess, I thought, why not go for all or nothing? People say that see possesses actual powers. I don't believe it, but why not try? She could have some information on Balboa.

The grainy streets seem to weep out of anger or despair as I stroll through the downpour, always vigilant, always alert. You never know what could happen.

Madame Maureen's shop is not far from home. The storm drains are worthless, leaving the streets flooded in the rain. I actually have to wade across an asphalt river to get to her door.

Dusty windows reveal nothing but a distorted image of the interior. No one is inside. There is a jar of money on a table next to a loaf of bread. Odd. She's usually in at this time of day. She must have given up. I haven't seen any people around the shop for days. Business must be slow. Serves her right. Horrible work. Horrible work that I am in need of.

Looked everywhere. Where is she?

Last place. She must be her. Unless she's been constantly on the move, and she is back where I started.

The one bright spot of the entire city is the playground. When I say bright, I mean bright.

The newly painted slide is an attempt by the city council to improve the aesthetics of the city, drawing people in, resulting in an economic boom.

Someone is sleeping under the slide. A small figure. Looks like a mouse, frightened and reclusive.

It's her!

As I approach her, I sense that something is wrong. Any person walking by, not paying close attention would think that she is sleeping. She's not moving. She doesn't appear to be breathing.

Shit. She's dead. Goodbye Balboa.

Still warm. No pulse. Died recently.

There's some money in her pocket. Should I take it? I would use it to finally leave this place. Balboa would want that. Forget him, move on.

A new city. That is what I need. Walk away. Leave him. Leave your rock.