The Eleventh Hour

 The clock ticks quietly overhead as my blankets unfurl at the behest of my feet kicking them away. The early morning smell of stuffy sheets replaced with the unusual airiness that is a still room.
Rolling over, I note the hour. 10:40 AM. Bleh.

I dismiss the frabjous feelings of calling out or just not appearing, but I am duty-bound to approach. Looking out the window, I see the planet. The trees torn by the wind, the watery slosh of the ocean against the shore in more and more violent tsunamis. I was late once, and it took out my apartment, so in the interest of not house-hunting again, I get out of bed.
I suppose it's necessary.

I've considered not going several times. Like, the people of this world used to simply deal with the clock-work-like destruction, why not let them deal with it again? It's not my fault they got used to me saving them.

But then I remember the things I sacrifice. The chance to get a coffee at my favorite shop. The chance to play games with functioning internet. The opportunity to have a decent place to live.

Lovely things. Going without them is annoying. And yet this world is beset on requiring me to get up every day to service others like washing dishes for my parents. And this is normal for people.

As I put on a comfy top and throw on my coat, I very much remember what life was like before the catastrophe's came. How nice it was to just have school and things to do. How easy normal life was when it didn't really expect me to save it. And why save it? It didn't save itself.

I ponder the other people in the universe who likely save their own worlds.
Doesn't make me feel better, I still have to be my worlds savior. Doesn't make it any easier. It's simply curious how we all are willing to live with half a solution.

I wonder sometimes about building little machines that would cut the destruction in half, though they wouldn't prevent it. Alas I have not been selected access to those resources.
I wonder sometimes about just letting it take me, but alas I have people who want me to live, and I want to be there for them.

So I go. I leave my apartment door and take the path down to the shore where I see the storm in the distance. It tears at the shore like a ravenous beast, its claws raking trees and houses off the edge of the beach, digging huge trenches in the sand while its ravenous jaws spit much of what it's collected out again. The impact of the odd stray house or car is loud enough to be deafening, which at one point may have been frightening. The entire beast snarls and claws towards town, looking down upon its intended meal. Massive, violent and imposing.
I ready my stance, my feet leading into a crouch before I take off, Mach 0.9 as the sound barrier gives me a headache.
I repeat this motion, moving my legs fast enough to press against the sound barrier itself.
This used to thrill me, learning to do this for the first few times, but now it is just monotony.
I blow through the sky like a cannon shot. Surely those below are a mix of "Oh my god!" and "Well, there's that again", like a group of high-schoolers seeing a shooting star.
Normal but unique.

I reach the storm. I kick and swerve around it, counteracting the clockwise spin, hoping to drain the energy stored within. It works, it reduces. Elementary. Easy.

Soon it has reduced to a tropical storm. Ah, what the hell, I'll let it pass today. I'm not paid enough to remove it entirely, that's exhausting and gets sand in my shoes.

I fall back, mid-somersault kicking my legs out, launching myself at-speed towards my home.

Soon enough I land, hours later than I left, and glancing over the horizon I can see the tell-tale signs of what will form the next storm.

I enter my home.
Maybe I should've been a weather reporter.