--
His hand shakily wrote the note that would sign his life away. What better place to take life away from himself than home? He scanned the room, pausing from his writing. To think it would all be gone soon. He'd never see his wife or kids again, but they'd probably be better off without him. The fans were. Perhaps when they realize he's no longer around, they won't even wonder why. They won't care.
The beating of his heart sped up as he signed his name at the end of the paper. He'd written a page long letter. A goodbye to those who may still care. Taking the paper in his hand, he slowly strolled through the living room, for the very last time. He froze at the chimney, glancing at the picture of his wife. They'd only been married 19 years, yet he felt she knew nothing about him. If she did, she'd be with him now, instead of out of town with the kids.
She would've sensed this a mile away. He shook his head at the thought of her and looked down at his wedding ring. It seemed to have rusted over the years, along with his marriage to her. With him on the road, they hardly ever communicated. She sometimes made the children think they didn't have a father and that the man that would come to their house twice a week was a "friend of the family's".
He didn't blame her though. The kids had grown up, seeing how their friend's fathers were. They were always around, and never missed a baseball game, or a ballet recital. But he could never be there, because he was too busy trying to entertain the crowds. Even if he did stop to spend time with them, they'd never accept him as their father. Not after everything he'd missed and every day he was gone.
He'd be gone for good this time. He'd have the same relationship he had with them now. They probably didn't want to see him anyway. He was their stranger; someone who seemed to care, but never showed it; never let his actions speak louder than words. Maybe this action would show who and how he really was.
As he headed up the stairs, he looked at the pictures lined on the wall. There were some of him, his wife and the kids. Tears welled in his eyes as he realized he'd never walk up those stairs again. He slowly strode into the bedroom, closing the door and locking it, despite no one being around to walk in.
He set the note on the dresser and looked at his reflection. His aging was disgusting and scared him a bit. What was he thinking? Fans didn't want to see THAT anymore. They weren't entertained by monsters.
He ran his finger along the wrinkles of his skin. The texture seemed to burn him, as his need to end himself grew. Taking one last look at the note, he pulled out his weapon from the dresser drawer; the gun.
"I loved you, fans. I wish you would have loved me," he uttered, bringing the pistol to his head. His temple grew cold, as the metal seemed to freeze the warmth of his body away. The chilling thought of death seemed more pleasant now.
"You're so close..." he said to himself, "it's too late to turn back now... It'll be over in a second. Just a second. One small second... " He took a deep breath, "Goodbye, World."
He didn't even feel the bullet until a millisecond after shooting the gun. He felt nothing then. As his lifeless body fell to the ground, his grip on the gun managed to soften enough to release it completely. With a 'thud', he landed on his side and then toppled onto his back, his gunmetal eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. They'd blink no more.
His other hand fell near the note. His goodbye was the only thing he'd left. It'd be his last.
" To Whom It May Concern,
I'm sorry I had to do this. I felt like I was no longer needed. I was a mystery to my children. Now, they'll never know me. I was a sideliner to the fans. They don't need me. I loved you all, though. You couldn't love me back. No one noticed me, and no one cared. I didn't have to anymore. Even if I wanted to stop entertaining, I couldn't. I had no home, and my family barely knew me. I turned to that gun, because it was emotionless, like me.
You all still don't care do you?
- Ric Flair "
--
His hand shakily wrote the note that would sign his life away. What better place to take life away from himself than home? He scanned the room, pausing from his writing. To think it would all be gone soon. He'd never see his wife or kids again, but they'd probably be better off without him. The fans were. Perhaps when they realize he's no longer around, they won't even wonder why. They won't care.
The beating of his heart sped up as he signed his name at the end of the paper. He'd written a page long letter. A goodbye to those who may still care. Taking the paper in his hand, he slowly strolled through the living room, for the very last time. He froze at the chimney, glancing at the picture of his wife. They'd only been married 19 years, yet he felt she knew nothing about him. If she did, she'd be with him now, instead of out of town with the kids.
She would've sensed this a mile away. He shook his head at the thought of her and looked down at his wedding ring. It seemed to have rusted over the years, along with his marriage to her. With him on the road, they hardly ever communicated. She sometimes made the children think they didn't have a father and that the man that would come to their house twice a week was a "friend of the family's".
He didn't blame her though. The kids had grown up, seeing how their friend's fathers were. They were always around, and never missed a baseball game, or a ballet recital. But he could never be there, because he was too busy trying to entertain the crowds. Even if he did stop to spend time with them, they'd never accept him as their father. Not after everything he'd missed and every day he was gone.
He'd be gone for good this time. He'd have the same relationship he had with them now. They probably didn't want to see him anyway. He was their stranger; someone who seemed to care, but never showed it; never let his actions speak louder than words. Maybe this action would show who and how he really was.
As he headed up the stairs, he looked at the pictures lined on the wall. There were some of him, his wife and the kids. Tears welled in his eyes as he realized he'd never walk up those stairs again. He slowly strode into the bedroom, closing the door and locking it, despite no one being around to walk in.
He set the note on the dresser and looked at his reflection. His aging was disgusting and scared him a bit. What was he thinking? Fans didn't want to see THAT anymore. They weren't entertained by monsters.
He ran his finger along the wrinkles of his skin. The texture seemed to burn him, as his need to end himself grew. Taking one last look at the note, he pulled out his weapon from the dresser drawer; the gun.
"I loved you, fans. I wish you would have loved me," he uttered, bringing the pistol to his head. His temple grew cold, as the metal seemed to freeze the warmth of his body away. The chilling thought of death seemed more pleasant now.
"You're so close..." he said to himself, "it's too late to turn back now... It'll be over in a second. Just a second. One small second... " He took a deep breath, "Goodbye, World."
He didn't even feel the bullet until a millisecond after shooting the gun. He felt nothing then. As his lifeless body fell to the ground, his grip on the gun managed to soften enough to release it completely. With a 'thud', he landed on his side and then toppled onto his back, his gunmetal eyes staring straight up at the ceiling. They'd blink no more.
His other hand fell near the note. His goodbye was the only thing he'd left. It'd be his last.
" To Whom It May Concern,
I'm sorry I had to do this. I felt like I was no longer needed. I was a mystery to my children. Now, they'll never know me. I was a sideliner to the fans. They don't need me. I loved you all, though. You couldn't love me back. No one noticed me, and no one cared. I didn't have to anymore. Even if I wanted to stop entertaining, I couldn't. I had no home, and my family barely knew me. I turned to that gun, because it was emotionless, like me.
You all still don't care do you?
- Ric Flair "
--