The man looked confused. He made all the right choices. He saved for retirement, bought the sensible car, didn’t gamble, paid his taxes, never discussed politics or religion, chose non-GMO organic, donated time to help others. He was a good human. He even put his grocery cart in the corral every time. How did this happen?
He looked at the crack in his wooden front door as it rattled on its hinges. How much longer would it last? He could see the cracks in the window on his back door. How much longer before the glass broke and they came in.
The werewolf howled as his claws ripped at the front door. He didn’t have any silver bullets. The zombies groaned as they slapped the cracking glass on the back door. He didn’t even have a gun to shoot them in the head. In fact, he looked at the spatula in his hand. It’s recycled plastic.
Sweat dripped down his furrowed brow. His eyes bounced from the front door to the back as he stood in the kitchen doorway. Defenseless, he knows whichever monster he meets first will eat him alive. He knows he lacks the means to defeat the evil breaking down his doors.
The man relives all the choices he made in his life. He remembers the good times, the bad times, and all the times in between. Ready, he knows this will be his last choice. He decides that even though either option will mean his death, he’s at least going to make a choice.
The man thanks the universe for his life and walks to the door of his choosing. His hand trembles as he twists back the deadbolt that clacks to rest. The chill of the brass tells him he’s still alive. It may be the last pleasant sensation of his life as he turns the knob. He pulls open the door, and his choice is final. No turning back. At least he got to choose his demise.