The day I lost my life, my heart had already died. The turmoil of emotions rushing through me when the doctor told me the news left me barely able to stand. My child had left this world before she could ever enter it. And my wife had left with her. I had been held up at the warehouse when my wife called telling me she was going into labor.
If I had arrived a half-hour earlier… The drive home was solemn. The radio was turned off. The passenger seat was cold. The car seat in the back seat was mocking me in the rear view mirror.
I sat, for hours, staring at the crib and the wrapped packages intended for my child. My eyes grew hard and my heart grew cold. I snapped at my employers and I shouted at my colleagues.
Jack Daniels was my best friend, and rum my lover. I was lazy, fat, and angry. My faith in God had dwindled and died. My name forgotten and my interests gone.
I lost my house, I lost my friends and I lost my job. In a fit of rage I broke into the Amity Park Warehouse. My head pounded as the alarm rang. I ran into a shelving unit and it dominoed into the others. I could hear sirens swiftly approaching. I was still wearing my overalls, though now they were covered in whiskey and scotch.
One of the falling shelves struck the chemicals we use to treat the boxes to make them more durable. The caught fire after a broken overhead light sparked. The shelves kept falling and eventually one of them fell on me, breaking my spine and covering me in cardboard boxes. My anger burned as the flames I had caused grew higher. The boxes around me caught fire and I choked on the smoke. The A.P.P.D. must have decided that I wasn't worth it as the police sirens faded away to be replaced by fire engines.
When the flames were put out my body was no longer recognizable as much more than ash.