The old man who was once Bartholomew Greene sat leaning on the umbrella, the umbrella which was the cause of the destruction about him. Palm trees broken and scattered, deep chasms rent in the earth, mountains leveled to seas, seas thrust toward the sky. The man felt small in the midst of all this. He sat staring blankly at nothing and everything. Trying to undo what he had done. Trying to make things right again. He could not and he knew this, but still he tried. Then he stood up, raised his eyes to the sky (now crimson), and yelled. He brought his head down and saw the umbrella laying where he had dropped it as he stood. Laying there as if it were an ordinary black umbrella with an ordinary wooden handle.

"You, you did all of this!" he shouted sweeping his hands wide to indicate the world about him. The umbrella gave no answer. It just lay there looking like an umbrella. He didn't know why he thought it should do anything else, it never had. It had always laid there looking innocent as all the world about it went mad.

The man walked over to a car (one that wasn't torn apart) and got in. He sat looking at the steering wheel and the levers sticking out of it and realized he didn't remember how to drive. He had known how to once. That was the only thing he had done until the umbrella came.
"I'll walk," he thought, "doesn't really matter, nowhere to go." He got out of the car and looked at the silver paint covering it.

"Yellow, the one I drove was yellow," and he turned away from the car and walked. He didn't know in what direction he was walking, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.