Possible apocalyptic story

Look into those trees over there - the black pines to the right of the paved road. If you look closely enough, you will see me: bony, pale, dirty, shaved head starting to stubble, gaunt face. You probably can’t even determine what color my eyes are. Well, I’ll tell you: they’re blue. And since I have little to no hair, I’ll tell you the color of that, too: dark brown. Normally, I have more weight on me. Normally, I’m not stumbling through the woods. Normally, there are cars on the road. Where is everyone, you ask. Not here is all I can say.

Ten. My bones ache, and the thin skin covering them is scraped through across my knuckles and on my ankles. The dead leaves crunch beneath my bare feet, my fingers grab at the trees as I stumble. My spotted vision gulps down the skinny trees to my sides: dark and crackling like fireworks waiting to go off. I look away and down only to find carcasses of rabbits and birds. Everything carries the sound of popping; some anonymous thing will set off everything, and the fireworks celebrating death and birth will sound. I smell death; everything has the smell of ripened antiquity. I think, what else can die? What else can we give up? And the answer is: me. I can die. I can be given up.