The clock tells me it's 5 am. It feels like I've been here for an eternity, staring into the blackness of my dark, empty room, waiting, just waiting. Nothing happens. Nothing ever happens. The darkness seeps into my soul, binding my hands and feet so tightly that they stop existing, or at least I can't feel them anymore. I wonder how long I can go on if my soul has no feet or hands. Can it still walk, or will it be dragged behind me when I move? If I ever move again. A bird chirps outside my window. I wish it would die. Such happiness doesn't belong here, doesn't belong with me. The bird falls silent. I look down at my hands, gripping so tightly to the frayed shirt in their grasp that my knuckles are bone white. The shirt I gave him, one day long ago, is old and thin. He used to love it. He used to wear it every weekend, when we would go to the abandoned park and get high, and dance to the song of the crickets and the moon. That was our special place. Our special everything. Now I can barely breathe, my throat is clogged by a huge, heavy, painful knot. I know my face is soaked with my tears, but I don't care. Not anymore. I don't have to look pretty for anyone anymore. He's gone, and my world is destroyed. Everything I was, and may have been, left when he did. I am a weary shell. I can see my breath misting up from my lips. It's cold, but I can't feel it. Am I dead? I feel dead. I feel nothing at all. I hear an animals in the forest outside my window, snuffling around in the dark. I almost want to get up and look, but I can't move. A sudden memory of a warm summer day assaults me. We were in the zoo, watching the lions. He held me from behind, his strong arms holding me close, his face pressed against mine, as we watched. He whispered, "I love you." The pain is a physical ache in my chest, as if my heart has been ripped out. I double over, sobbing silently into his favorite shirt. This can't go on, I can't go on, I want to die! I want to join him! What kind of fate is crueler than being separated from your soulmate by the eternal chill of death's horrid sense of humor? I want to forget, but I have to remember. He was my half, and now I am nothing... Nothing. The clock screams 5:15 when I slip the gun into my mouth.
to the end
March 5, 2012