My family dying was looked at by others as just a spot of bad luck; an unavoidable, unfortunate series of events. Something that people could read about in their newspapers, safe at home with their kids and their mugs of coffee; shaking their heads with a frown and think, how unfortunate, expecting me to pull myself up by my bootstraps, conquering the next stage of my life to give the story a happy ending. To everyone else it was simply a case of wrong place, wrong time, but for me, it was not a moment in my life to rise from the ashes, a phoenix reborn. It was absolutely and utterly apocalyptic. It was the final bomb that sends chasms shooting through the ground, buildings falling, and people screaming out in pain and fear. It was the end of myself. It was not a trial to make me stand tall and profess that it had not killed me, only made me stronger. It was an all consuming darkness that ate my soul and drank my tears, never letting go. At my absolute rock bottom, soaked in booze and surrounded by sickness, i would find the end didn’t hold the light of hope, but a world full of ghosts, cults, cryptids, and stalkers. There’s only one absolute truth for us all; things can always get worse.