A Perfect Ending

[Altair]

--Just something I wrote when I was feeling incredibly dark one night--

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick...
Skirtch skratch...

There was a whispering silence drifting through the stone tower, a cold breath of air crawled its way down the chilled walls. The sound of the wind whistling through the trees outside was the only sound inside the house other then the quiet ticking of the Grandfather clock in the corner, and the scratching of a pen on the paper. The quiet became a scream, a silent scream that was tearing the sanity out of the only person breathing inside the cold stone tower. The scratching became more furious, less concentrated, the letters became sloppier until they turned into furious scribbles, scraping their way across the page, making no logical sense. Through the words before that, lines were scarred through and the pen was thrown aside, paper along with it, collecting on the floor like fallen leaves. Long boney fingers threaded through dark brown curls, a furious tear filled frustrated yell came from his lips and eyes were closed tightly shut. He stamped his feet a couple times, yanking at his hair and yelling again before stopping. Those white pale digits slid from his locks to expose a well chiseled handsome face. High cheekbones, firm jaw and emerald green eyes. All disorientated by the red blush spread across his face and the tears running down his cheeks as he sniffed and wiped them away.

No one cared. They were too busy with their own families. Thirty five. Alone. Sober. It wasn't worth it was it? All this pain? All this heart break that became a daily thing when he opened his eyes in the morning and saw no one beside him in that lonesome dark bed. Was it worth each night eating dinner alone in the darkness of his empty kitchen, listening to the people walk together with their friends, their family, the loves of their life, not knowing the torture they were causing to the individual inside? Sure, he had family, he had friends, but everyone was so caught up in their own conflicts, it was like he didn't exist, that he dropped off the face of the earth. Who was that? What did he do? Oh that's such a shame, he was a good boy. He was a sweet boy. He could have done better. Thirty five years. He could have done better. There was a coldness in the place he sat in this haunting tower, surrounded by the soulless stuffed creatures of those hunted down like the animals they were.

He was nothing but a disgrace. Something no one would miss. Why would they? They didn't miss him now. How many years clean and free? Down the drain with the first shot. Then another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Don't stop until the pain does. As each drink disappeared, so did the aches. The heartbreak, the sorrow. Each drink brought him further from the deepest pit. Each drink saved his soul from the torment it felt by killing it. He went to take another and before he could, his throat tightened. His stomach rejected the next drink, and all the others in the most obscene way possible, oozing from his mouth and his nose as he slid to the floor from the couch. It flooded his mouth and from between his lips and out his nostrils, hunched over on himself, glass and bottle in hand. He didn't bother getting up. He couldn't anyway, no sense in trying.

No more pain....a perfect ending to a tragic love song.