Andrew

Andrew had been in the shower for close to ten minutes now. The water rushed out of the shower head at quite a comfortable temperature. But Andrew was oblivious to it.

The steam from the shower had fogged up the mirror, a reflection looking more like a blurred representation of the real world: the world in which Andrew felt redundant and out of place, a world which caused a life of agony and despair for him. But the pain had eased, now; all he knew was the small sound of each individual splash on the tiles of the shower floor. Each drop's impact caused a splash that was distinct and deafening.

Andrew had had enough. He was sick of everybody telling him who he was and what he had done. He began to cry, letting out silent sobs, each tear only present for a moment, before it is taken away by the steaming water from the showerhead. As he cried he thought about their faces, what they would look like, and he began to laugh.

He looked at the floortiles. At the rose-red water going down the drain. Only now did he feel remorse. Only in his final moments of conciousness did he feel as though he had made a mistake. He tried to think of their faces, their shocked and mournful faces, but they did not come to him.

He began to panic and tried to run. Where could Andrew go. Conciousness faded. The blood, his life, drained from his wounded arms until there was no more.

If only he could have seen their faces.