He. Who the hell starts a story with “He.” It’s not who is, but what he’s doing that’s important. He was standing on the porch of his half-finished house. Smiling. Enjoying the sunset as it died behind the ocean waves, watching his last few minutes of daylight slip away. If only he could have done more work in his living room today. It would have been easier with dad around, but, he cracked a quick frown, it didn’t matter anyway. He turned around and walked inside.
He placed his drink on the countertop and wiped the sawdust off it. I’m going to have to polish you soon, he smiled.
But as he was driving home he couldn’t help but feel empty inside, and he knew why. 24 years young, beautiful, and successful. But he had no one. He stopped at the red light and stared at the whites of his knuckles on the steering wheel. He didn’t realize he was so tense. He relaxed and let out a sigh.
His last moment in life was just a reflex as the light turned green. The truck obliterated his body, soul, and mind.

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