Dying is easy. It's living that's hard.
Howard sat on the floor in the middle of the Nabootique, legs spread wide, a half empty bottle of vodka between them. His arms were red from Chinese burns; burns which had lost all meaning after a while. Howard was desperate. He was desperate for escape.
There were options. He had options.
There were knives and guns; ropes and water; fire and falling. He could think of one hundred more. He'd thought of nothing else in the last few months. His vision had been clouded with anger and blood and pain. Not even his best friend's sunny demeanor could shine though, so his best friend had stopped trying.
Not that Vince hadn't put in an effort, he had. Vince had tried for weeks to pull Howard out of this endless gloom. He'd lost though, and Howard had fallen even farther once he quit trying.
Howard couldn't remember where Vince had gone when they'd closed up shop today. He'd been reorganizing stationary village for the nine-thousandth time when Vince had walked out the door without a word or a passing glance. He hadn't even said goodbye.
But what was the use in saying goodbye. They'd grown apart. Howard didn't think he even knew Vince anymore. There was no reason for him to write a note to anyone. There wasn't anyone to cry over him anymore. There was only Howard and his own rancid tears.
Knives. Guns. Ropes. Water. Fire. Falling.
Death.