In a small brick house a moth is drawn to the candle of a flame, it dances around the edges of it. Wings fluttering steadily, circles around, around. An every day occurrence, that no one would think twice about. For it is but a moth, a small bug, an insect, it does not matter. We do not question why this small creature fries its wings, or what it sees in the light, we do not know if this suicide is intentional or not. Nor, do we stop to ask these questions, there is no point, for no one cries over a dead moth.

Down the street from the moth was a boy. His backpack was heavy filled with all of his school books, folders,and binders as he crossed the street, smiling at the crossing guard as he did so. It weighed down heavily across his shoulders, causing his back to bow foreword under the load. His pace was slow, the straps digging into his skin.

“Good afternoon, stay warm.”

“Goodbye, thank you, you too”

The walk wasn’t very long, but the sidewalks were now covered in ice. He slipped a little as he walked over a crack in the pavement, he recovered, placing one foot in front of the other in a steady rhythm, his head downcast. He did not wear a coat, but did not shiver in the cold, it seemed he was immune. His house was not far from school, pulling the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door with shaking hands, and set his backpack to the side before taking off his shoes, and lining them up neatly, he then peeled off his socks, and tucked them inside.

He unzipped his backpack, running his hands up and down his jean clad thighs with a sigh. He pulled the notebook out, flipped it to the third page, and set it down at the end of the dining room table. He stopped. He read over the words on the page three times. He stepped back to his backpack, and pulled a pen from the side pocket. He flipped the page over, added a few sentences, blinking furiously, and turned back to the third page.

He walked to the bathroom he peered at his face in the mirror, running a hand through his hair. He paced forward, turning towards one of the light bulbs on either side above the sink. Careful not to burn his fingers, touching only the area below the glass, he began to twist his hand in circles towards the left. The bulb sprang free, and he placed it gently into the trash, careful not to let it shatter.

His hands shook a little as he undid his flies. He pulled it out, and began to empty his contents out onto the floor. The acrid smell began to fill the room as it puddled onto the floor. A tear slid down his left cheek as his hands balled up to fists with white knuckles. He clenched his jaw. Leaning over the sink he rubbed a bar of soap over the backs of his hands, and across his palms. He rinsed them underneath scalding hot water. It was so hot it turned his fingertips red as if pricked by thorn bushes. He wiped at his face, inhaling deeply. He thought to say a prayer, but shook his head instead. There was no use now.

He stepped into the puddle on the floor, and stuck his finger into the empty space.
There is no more.