Every cell in his sleep deprived body seemed to tremble violently. He stared reticently down at the empty page with a contorted porcelain face that rarely saw sunlight. His posture was arched horribly over the mahogany desk. His tears fell freely and fluently, like rain upon the paper, staining it translucent. With a pen in his right hand, he wrote:
(Also to anyone else who might grieve for the sake of grieving. Satisfying there conscious with fabricated tears over a boy who was never really a part of their lives.)
Please forgive me for this. I have tried as you've asked. Tried to find a reason. Tried to fill the holes that time has eaten through my open heart like a worm through a rotting apple. I still find myself in this black hole of anti-socialism, self contempt and misery. I say misery, but the word lacks effect. The weight upon my chest is heavy, so heavy. It pulls me down further every minute and this time I can't stand. So I sit and write instead.
I'd like to say, from the pit of my nauseous stomach, thank you. For every time you've picked me up, exhausted by the weight of my breaking heart, only to see me fall down again. Thank you for all the memories of better times, when we smiled and meant it. Thank you for everything.
You and I both know I have never belonged anywhere. I am forever on the borderline. Alike enough to identify with everyone but not enough for anyone to identify with me. What pains me the most is that I can never escape myself. I'm an outsider. A pessimistic, complaining, bitter, hateful, miserable bastard whose company not even you can bear anymore. Not that I blame you. I don't and don't want you to blame yourself.
In years past I have opened myself to others but only for them to push me away, serving me with a mechanical smile and the look in their eyes. The look that cuts like a blade, a combination of fear, dislike and disgust, that speaks without words, saying "get the fuck away from me". So I hardened, I learnt to push them away first, and it's taken an irreparable toll. I am lonely all the time. So very very lonely. If there was just one person to hold me, keep me and love me…but its too late now. Much too late.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so very sorry. I can't do this anymore. Not any of it. It's all too painful. I leave what few possessions I have to you, my only friend. Do whatever you'd like with them.
He signed his name with a shaking hand, put the pen down, and took the revolver from the desk draw. He put the gleaming barrel in his mouth. It felt cold like death against his dry lips and the trembling made his teeth tap precariously against the metal. He sat this way for some time, maybe a minute, maybe an hour, it didn't matter, time became fluid and blurred. Memories of his short pointless life flickered through the lens of his mind, intangible, fragmented, like flour through a sieve. Then suddenly an eerie calm washed over him, and drowned his every thought. It was instant, like a false revelation and as empty and numbing as one. He didn't feel anything. He stopped trembling. He stopped crying. He died and then he pulled the trigger.