Given Up

         If that doesn’t top it all off. 
         The faint smell of gas filled Michael’s nostrils.  His urgency to escape this shattered dwelling amplified, which just seconds before seemed utterly impossible.  There was some hope; he thought he recognized the room he was currently occupying.  The painting with the fruit piled in the toilet bowl; he remembered that had been hanging in the sitting room.  Right then it was lying crumpled in a dark corner next to an overturned loveseat.  If he was in the sitting room, that would mean ---
         Michael conjured up the last bit of his strength and pushed a few beams aside.  He peered through the hole he had just constructed and saw the once elegant corridor, now in shambles, much like the rest of the house.  Small tables were inverted and pieces of the crystal chandeliers lay scattered all over the tattered Persian rugs.
         He clamored over the wreckage in the doorway.  A piece of a lamp went directly into the ball of his barefoot.  Michael didn’t even feel it; the last few days had taught him so much about pain.  A streak of blood stained the wall behind his hand as he used it to steady himself as he stumbled down the passage.
         After so many days, Michael had finally made it back to the front of the house.  He could see the door that lead to the street.  Once through that door he was free to do whatever he wanted and never look back on what had happened here.  All he had to do was turn the doorknob.
         Meters from the door Michael thought of all the fantastic things he still wanted to do with his life.  No more obstacles laid in front of him, yet he sat down.  He closed his eyes and let the gas envelop him.