The basement

The world was dangerous. George was a realist. It started when he was twenty. The news reported that spinach killed a man, so George threw out his spinach. A lady got shot at a bus stop, so he stopped using the bus. It was really quite sane.

Once he started looking, everything was dangerous. He was allergic to bees, so he stayed indoors. Tornadoes could hit without warning, so he started living in his basement. Weekly, his groceries got shipped to his door. He had everything he needed in his basement to live a full life.

It was late, he sat in his chair in front of the TV that had filled his life with memories. Books were piled around his chair. Great books, written by Poe, Twain, and Bradbury.

“Poor sap,” he muttered.

“Someone noticed his groceries piling up outside. He must have been dead for weeks.”