Telly With The Lights Out

You don’t have to go outside. 

Rachel had the degree, and the know how to forge a career in a dozen different enterprises. But after the accident, and the inheritance that followed, what was the point?

She cut out the rubbish. Ate lots of soups and stews. Bought secondhand clothes online. Cut and cut, and you will have plenty left. Do not laze, but do not spend. 

When the sun shined Rachel did her yoga in the front room. She felt like a flower, soaking up the sun’s rays. She hadn’t gone further than five hundred metres in two years, but rather than a pasty blob, Rachel was someone you would shake the hand of. Not that you would ever get the chance. 

Her focus was the television. The magic box kept her informed, kept her on trend, kept her educated and entertained. In the winter months she watched fifteen hours day. Her favourite shows were charity events, Eurovision, or anything that was deemed a special, when millions of people separately joined together to love something.

When the dot in the sky appeared, she flipped over from the news. 

Only when the meteorite was a week away, did Rachel panic. She peeked from behind the curtains, and watched the fleeing crowds. Her heart rate tripled in under a minute. 

Then a glorious thing happened. One that convinced Rachel that she might be the luckiest human being alive.

Since they knew the end was inevitable, the televisions commissioned specials across the board. They roped in any celebrities they could, any crew members willing to work for a meaningless fortune. There were final episodes of game shows, music events, even conclusions to sitcoms and dramas. So many times they ended with everyone waving at the camera, wishing everyone one last goodbye. 

The windows shattered, and thick smoke poured through her front door. Plaster dust coated her bed, and the whine of fire trucks and police cars blocked out the screaming. But on the television they still laughed, even when the camera toppled over. 

Rachel had never been so happy.