Sitting here, awaiting the unusual event that will break the repetative routine that I call my day, brings no more purpose to my pathetic existance than anything else has. Sick of the monotonous events that string together the long hours that make up days and days fading into weeks, into months, and so on. I slam the clip into the gun, one bullet, one for me. I climb upon my rooftop, the one place that has brought me any peace in my 14 years of life, I scream my plea to any who wish to hear my final words, and raise the gun to the warm, filmy surface, the roof of my mouth. A warm loving phantom void calls to me, soothing my mind, beckoning me to commit this final dead that will end it all, end it all, and end the routine. I let the warm tears stream, not caring about the display of weakness I so carelessly let show, I am tired of the strong facade I keep. I cannot masquarade as a emblem of strength any longer. I squeeze the trigger, and open my eyes to the blank horizon. The clip had fell to the surface of the roof long ago, realization hits, and suicide isn't worth it.