Volumes of Despair

How appropriate for this to be the way it ends, surrounded by the pages of ink, I favored so significantly over friends. Now my myths watch in unwavering silence as I stand upon this stool. Those, I've sacrificed for this overwhelming affliction, may have stopped me. If only they were here; but alas, I stand alone. I will end it here in a room of silent thoughts. From the stool, I step gently onto a mountain of my own ambition and idealism. So fitting is it, my life should end at the hands of my own creations. As I stagger to keep my balance, the scraping of the rope burns my neck. I wait with, baited breath, for the first volume to fall from beneath my feet. Still, I grasp at the illusion that someone will come. Still, I pray for a gift from God; though, I know I do not deserve such favoritism. The first cover slides from beneath my feet and down a hill of its brothers. The rope tightens, and darkness begins to take me. It is not enough to kill, only enough to dream.

I find myself among those wishing for a better life. Toxic delusions gripped in their hands. They drink to kill what little remains of their senses. There I sat, with a bottle of numbness half empty in my hands. My head still filled with wishes of her return and true love. "She'll be back. She loves me," I mutter to the doctor behind the counter. Yes, a pain doctor with a seemingly endless supply of medication. Did I really believe what I said or was it just the liquor? If I did, I don't anymore. I know she will never come back nor should she. All the days I spent buried in my books should have been in her arms. I never truly loved her and neither did this broken storyteller before me. What a despicable creature. A vampire feed off the good nature of kind woman. Damn him and Damn me for once being such a thing. A tug at my neck tells me the end is growing ever near. It seems God has decided to show me a movie of my own despair on this plane ride to hell.

Back to where it all began now. The day I actually died. There she stands in the doorway of reality one step outside my room of fantasies. "I can't do this anymore Andrew. I'm leaving." I remember those words and the ones that follow. I want to stop them, the words the shut my door on reality. I want to yell to her, but I can't. I'm lingering just above the ground now. My voice cut off by the rope. Here it comes, the words that have echoed through my mind for nearly a decade. "I'm busy, can't we talk about this later."

There they are. So cold, so simple are words that closed that door. I deserve this. I deserve to watch this. How I hate the man sitting before me. This creature yet to die, yet to suffer, who's words have forced me to live in empty nothingness for so long. Damn you, killer of dreams, Judas of self, condemner of happiness. So heartless, he can't even be bothered to turn around and face her. What was so valuable you couldn't even look at her? I don't remember. What did you get in place of her? Surely it was more than just pages of ink? Yet, I have nothing else. Did you

Think what you wrote was worth her? I know it wasn't. Tighter the rope pulls; and now, there is only I. God grants a moment alone before I die. I, who knows all my past selves mistakes, have come too late to fix a single one. I who has nothing, for every past self has taken little by little away. I, who can only hope to be born again, must believe that a new me, an Andrew yet to come, will hear my plea, "Please, don't be me."