I don't even know where this came from. I'm going to blame it on always listening to, what my friends call, "angst-y" music. So enjoy readers. Please don't hesitate to review, it means a lot to me. –Leah ;)

Warning: RATED M! Contains strong language, drug and alcohol use, implied adult themes. Read at your own discretion; and if you don't like it, no one is forcing your mouse to click on it, and no one is forcing your occipital lobe to help process its content. I respect your right to like it or not, so please respect my right to write what I please. :]

"Heard a knock upon my door the other day, I opened it to find death staring in my face. The feel of mortal stalking still reverberates; everywhere I go I drag this coffin just in case."

Everything around him was dissolving, leaving on its own accord. His family, done with him months ago, and girlfriend walked out the moment she found out he was into it. The few friends had left could hardly be considered that at best. He couldn't remember the last time he been to work, he figured they just fired him not showing up after a week or two. The withered appearance of his face on display for each stranger he passed, once bright emerald eyes were sunken in and tired, his skin devoid of healthy color, clothes worn and shoes falling apart, he might as well be a walking corpse.

The heat was blazing down that afternoon, as he walked down the street to his lonely apartment, he could feel the last few pills he had in his pocket every time his hand swayed when he moved. To someone who wasn't as fucked up as him, they would have been something that wasn't frightening. He rubbed his fingertips against the faint outlines of the little pills in his denim pocket.

This is the last time, he swore to himself. He forced himself to believe the lie; he let his brain process the obvious lie into the one stead-fast thing he had to hang on to.

He found himself walking faster at the excitement of the high that he knew was coming, but at the same time he'd rather die then feel the crash after the "good stuff" wore off and all that was left was this shitty experience he had come to call living.

This is the last time, Kendall whispered to himself once more as he opened his front door and shakily took a seat at the small kitchen table. He slammed the little bag of pills on the table and took his cell phone out to crush them. A halfway crisp ten dollar bill served a beautiful tool to line up the dust, before he leaned his nose down and breathed in deep taking the poison powder into his system.

Kendall remembered the feeling of warm floating all down his limbs, the buzz that told his brain it was okay to laugh, and that told his eyes and ears that there were objects and sounds he sensed weren't real hallucinations. He briefly remembered the happy feeling settling into his mind, before he couldn't distinguish between reality and delusion.

Fear was being in to crumble his weak frame and he sat on his couch screaming at what looked like nothing to an outsider, but in his vision he saw death lurking its way closer to him, hoping to wrap its dark, languid fingers around his throat and stop his heartbeat forever. He never wanted to go back in time more than ever before; he knew that this was it. Everything had finally reached the breaking point, as the black over took his "reality".