Fin

Walking down the long hallways, there is nothing to be heard. Suddenly my feet begin to slow, and I tip-toe, just adding to the madness my mind creates from the isolation. All the loneliness in life has finally become too much to handle.

There is nothing for me...

There is no one for me...

The all-too-white walls of the hall just stare at me as my journey to the end continues. If they could talk, they'd tell you that my actions tonight are justified. Throughout my life, only they were there for me; no one else. And now, after everything we've been though, the blankness of the walls just look back at me; like I'm walking the long road of death row as prisoners on both sides just watch me take my final steps.

Heat from the vent blows down on me, and I stop. It pushes down on my untamed hair, parting and moving it around. The air rolls over my skin, like I'm slipping under a warm, fuzzy blanket fresh out of the dryer. The warm sensation is nice; a faint smirk develops on my face. My eyes slowly close, which just adds to the pleasure. Without open eyes, only darkness surrounds you, and that's where I like to be. Taking deep breaths... It is all very relaxing... But then my eyelids shoot open. I'm only delaying the inevitable by doing this, I should keep going. So I continue.

Oh yes, look. It's my dad's bedroom. The beige carpet hugs every inch of the floor, with the walls almost mathing the same color. And on them there isn't much, just a couple windows, blinds tightly closed, and an enormous picture opposing the doorway. Such a calming picture... It's just a small bridge, hovering over an even smaller creek on a warm summer evening. Behind the wooded area composing the space around the nearly dry creekbed, the sun is setting. Only the tip of the falling sun is visible, and the sky surrounding it is filled with clouds of purple, orange, and dark yellow. I love everything about that painting. The colors used and the way the brush strokes appear on the canvas just builds up to something magical. Why couldn't life be as nice as that? I look out the window; what's there? A line of similar-looking houses across the old slim road which needed repairing is the only thing to find. Everything is blissful in the painting; I wish I was there. But no, God left me here, in this hell. Whenever I step outside am I greeted by the music of birds, the sound of a rushing creek, or the visual of a hillside covered in trees? No... The music of police sirens, the sound of barking dogs, and the visual of heavy traffic from the nearby highway, instead, plagues my mind. Maybe this area used to be like the picture... filled with trees and creeks... But all the wildlife has been destroyed long ago; nature has been killed to make way for humans. Mankind is slowly and silently destorying this world; raping the Earth of it's resources and leaving behind only waste. I hate them; humans... But I am not a hypocrite, for I am not a person. I used to be, but many years of loneliness and being unloved have taken that away from me. I don't know what to call myself... I am nothing.

And with that, my body let out a deep sigh, and I walk over to the bed. Standing at the foot, my eye focused in on every detail. The comforter clung on to the matress as a baby would it's mother. It was completely dark green, which seemed to compliment the color of the rest of the room. I lay my hand down on the soft fabric and massage it. I wonder who made this and how much effort was put forth to create it. Small little pleasures in life, like this, the warmth of a blanket, go unnoticed way too often. With much pleasure and a smile on my face, I jump on the bed. My eyes close as I move through the air, and continue to stay shut even post-flight as I lay on the bed. It makes me feel good; at peace with myself. I just stay there, not moving at all... lifeless... Enjoying the thought.

My hand starts for under the bed, when I saw some pictures framed on the dresser beside me. The dresser had three levels for storage and was painted dark brown all over. It was, as the rest of the room - plain. On top of the dresser, quite a few pictures are showcased for all to see. Biggest of them all, in an expensive frame, was my mother. Why is she there? Does dad like to torture himself with it? She may have been the only halfway decent person I knew. But many years ago, death took her away. Even in the earliest of my memories, she was confined to a wheelchair; that's what the combination of breast cancer and clumsy doctors will get you. Sure, the cancer was defeated, but the imprecise radiation damaged the spine, leaving the lower half of her body completely useless... She won the battle; lost the war. Years of never being able to walk can drive a person crazy, I understand. Just sitting there... Only being able to watch... I played soccer in the backyard, we all layed on a blanket to stare at the stars, playing mini-golf, chasing the dog in a field, jumping off the diving board into a pool... So many things robbed from her. So many verbs suddenly became inaccesible to her. Yes... Life was hard for her, but she managed to push on for longer than I'd be able to. One day, with dad out of town on business, I woke up on that sunny Saturday morning just to find her still in bed. It was unusual for her to sleep in so I rolled her over to find an empty pill bottle clentched in her hand... And that was my first lesson about death. I was just a four-year-old trying to wake his lifeless mother, and no one else was there to shield me from it - the reality of the world... Maybe that's what I needed, to have something that blinds me from the evil and tragedy of life. I don't have enough distraction to guard me from everything, and I can't take it anymore. Ignorance truely is bliss...

The other pictures on the dresser are just meaningless memories that dad held dear for one reason or another. Most of them included me. I hate every picture of me; they're all the same: my eyes clearly tainted with hate and a fake smile slapped on my face as I stand in my rags-quality shirt and blue jeans, which are a few sizes too big for me.

Fuck it all, my life wouldn't amount to anything anyway...

I pull a box out from beneath the bed and place it in my lap as I sit Indian-style on the bed. Carefully, I removed the lid, revealing all the contents inside. It is glorious... A standard pistol. Nothing special, but it got the job done. My dad had told me where it is in case someone broke in or some similiar situation. Little did he know, that information was just the map I'd use to create my end. Staring at the gun is like staring into the face of an old friend, one I haven't seen in years. My dad said that the gun was "ready to fire," so he already eliminated any complications. It'd be a shame to finally make it this far only to find that the ammunition is hidden somewhere else. I pick the gun up, never taking my eyes off it. Excitment and nervousness begin to brew inside me. I can feel the slew of emotions developing, like hundreds of dull needles poking me, randomly taking jabs at my inards. Quickly, though, it all went away as each part of my mind came to the realization - this is inevitable.

Slowly, I turn the gun so it is facing me. The barrel is just inches away from my face, like Death's hand pointing at me as he makes his next selection. This has to be done, there is no other way, I keep telling myself that over and over so I don't question my actions. I can't stop, I would only regret it later. My index finger caresses the trigger, massaging it like a pet. Still, I stare down the barrel - the beautiful black hole - and I ask myself, does it really have to be like this? YES DAMMIT! ...What is this? This new pain I am beginning to feel. It is my conscience talking me out of this... Oh, well welcome back. I thought you died long ago with my mother. But no, I won't let you take control again, I was a slave to you long enough, go away. I better get this over with quick... On to the next step, I put the gun in my mouth, feeling the cold metal with my tounge. It is delicious. My finger begins to move more rapidly around the trigger; it's growing impacient with my quarell I'm having with the angel perched on my left shoulder. There should be a little demon on my right arguing for his side, but there isn't. Maybe he sees this as a war he has already won, and soon I'll be marching as part of his ranks. It won't be so bad... well... it can't be worse than what I have to deal with here, anyways. Ever since mom's death I've noticed life slowly slipping away from me. It's all your fault, Mom! It's your fault for being so good to me. It's your fault for showing me the most love I've ever known. It's your fault for making me realize how much better things could have been. It's your fault for dying; leaving me behind. And with that, my eyes shift to the painting for a few seconds, then shut tightly, keeping the image fresh in my mind. My finger prepared to squeeze... And my mind went from full of thought, to nothing at all.