He was sitting on the cool floor of his bedroom. A dim light intruding through the narrow gap between the thick curtains. He hadn't gone out in two weeks. His minute apartment had become his world. A world where dishes piled themselves up in the sink, where cigarettes burns ruined the carpet and where the voices of human beings were considered a myth.
He needed no more. What has he got anyway? After all, life had provided him with nothing but misfortune and dashing hopes. Unloved since the day he was born, unlovable for those he had grown a mild interest in. An orphan, an outcast, a failure: words that define his entire life. How then was he supposed to believe in a world that had turned his back to him? It was a felony to spit a soul out to a life with no purpose. Every day passed like the blank page of a book God had forgotten to write.
Even though solitude seemed to suit him perfectly, what was he going to do with all the passion and sentiment his body locked inside? Once they had been so fierce he thought he'd be devoured by them, but they had become oxidized throughout the years, thus, representing a burden for his ghostly existence.
After days of struggle, he had come up with an ultimate solution: He'll get rid of them. He took the gun lying in front of him, pointed it right at his temple and closed his eyes shut. Farewells were unnecessary; he'd vanish in the dark, unnoticed as always. Something had to work out for him at least once in his lifetime. He smirked at the irony. A second later, he pulled the trigger.