Before I start my story, there is one thing that must be said. Today is the day of my death. For what I need not say, because frankly your opinion of my actions and their consequences mean nothing to me. I will leave my judgment to one. The One. But for now I decay, having lived a short and regretful life.

It's funny, because of all the dramatic stories that fill my head and alter my belief, I have always thought my last day would be one spent in rain and thunderstorms as the world wept for my departure. Yet, as I look out my window from within my shack, it is an average day. The birds fly with glee. The sun shines as bright as the days before. The world does not mourn a life. She still turns and allows all who inhabit her to move on with happiness, with ignorance. Irony playing its ultimate trick contradicting the human condition that we are special.

I thought those who loved me, who knew me even, would surround me upon my fleeting days and celebrate my life with grief-stricken smiles or mournful tears. But reality is much harsher than death. I sit alone at my wooden table, upon my wooden chair, within my wooden shack. The only things that surround me are shadows and possessions, that of which were once mine but now below to no one. They are like me, suddenly without purpose and simply await for what happens next.

As the sun raises higher, I begin to see death, her true face, and the accepted social depiction does her no justice. Death did not come from the shadows as a starved skeleton to reap my eternal soul. No, she angelically fell from the heavens, caressing me and warmly welcoming me. Her hair is dark brown like the earth placed upon a coffin. Her eyes are a deep green that strangely draw me to her like a warm sinkhole, engulfing and hugging my very being. Her touch is warm like a blanket made from mother, full of caring and sympathy.

Death's arms drape down my chest, as her head rests on my shoulders. She is the only company I have as the sun begins to fall. Her hand leaves my body and points to objects upon my table, the pills and the pistol, and I know what she is asking. Death demands how I wish to die. I can allow her to seduce to me and be taken by ailment, slowly and welcoming, or leave on my conditions, my terms, my end.

I do not write this for your pity. I write this because they are my last thoughts. My mind is still divided between the straw death and my hand. But no matter the choice, I still die today. By the time you read this my true judgment will have past, and my fate sealed. I accept whatever punishment lays before me, because I know that it is the worst consequence of my actions.

I have no name, I am just an whisper within the zephyr of history. The only thing that connects you and I, are the psychological anomalies that form the human condition. That said, I guess the name I could be called is Fear. Now, I leave you, making my decision. Good-bye.



Thank you for reading this.