I lie awake, haunted by a life that was, wishing for what could have been but will never be. No one knows. None would care.


My body will be left to rot. My life story, a brief blurb in newsprint. Black and white. Without color. A fitting end for one who lived life in grayscale, left no color on the lives of those whom he touched. Unremarkable. Forgotten.


I grasp for the end, searching for a conclusion, but it hovers just out of reach, eluding me. The torment of a mind, a bookshelf full information and experience, slashed, shredded, condensed, and crammed into a ratty paperback with a broken binding are more than this proud man can bear. More than any man should have to.


Someone to hold my hand. Someone to usher me away from a life no longer worth living. Someone to care.


I brush it with my fingertips. Almost. And then again.


Breath leaves, at last. It does not return. Absence of pain does not bring relief. It only creates more.

For I have died.


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