he was nothing. (Eddsworld)

Seven.

Tom stormed out of the house after that. He just couldn't stand to see anyone. He sat on a bench in the centre of town. It was a cloudy day. Tom hoped it wouldn't rain. That was one of hopes Tom still held onto. But his mind ruined it for him.

Selfish, it said. There are homeless, people far more miserable than you who would loath seeing fresh water fall from the sky. There are people who don't have homes or a steady source of food available who are so much happier than you. You're taking your resources for granted.

As Tom watched cars zoom by, with every one he thought of jumping in front of it. How easy it really is to die. Just hold your breath and within a minute you'll pass out. How fragile a human really is. He thought of the impact, the fall. If the car would stop or keep driving, crushing his body with it's tires. Would it hurt?

He stood up, pulled his hood over his head, and began walking again. He got to a large, important-looking building. It was an office building for a large company, though, Tom did not know the name. Inside, there was a man, looking close to in his thirties, at a receptionists desk. A phone was pressed to his ear. The man look at Tom and held up a finger, signalling he'd be a minute.

Tom waited patiently at the desk. After a moment and a few words here and there, the man put the phone down and looked at Tom, "What can I do for you, sir?"

"I'm here to see a friend." Tom said politely.

"Who might that be?"

Tom thought for a second and begged that someone with this named worked here, "James."

"James who?" The man looked at him with a confused look on his face. Tom panicked for a moment. But came up with a plan.

"He didn't tell me his last name. If you know the last name of a James who works here, it might spark a memory." Tom shrugged. He was glad he was better at hiding his worry than he was at hiding his sorrow.

"There's a James Ellen and a James Robertson."

Tom pretended to be excited, "James Robertson! That's the one!"

"Okay, do you have an appointment?"

Tom covered the panic with a small frown, "No, actually I'm here to tell him about his wife."

"His wife?" The employee asked, curious.

"Yeah. He told me to tell him if his wife had gotten better or worse. She's in the hospital." Tom sighed.

"I'm so sorry. Please, go on. Second floor, third or fourth door on the right. It should have his name on it." The man waved Tom away and he strode into the elevator. Tom pressed the button for the highest floor.

Tom was not going to see Mr. Robertson, nor going to tell him about his sick wife. He was going to the roof. Just to think. Since the building was so high looking up, he wondered if it was the same looking down.

After a minute, Tom was there. He had to climb a flight of stairs to get onto the actual roof. The wind whipped his hair in all directions as he opened the door. A seagull that was lying on the roof flapped it's wings and soar off.

Tom wished he could fly. Then he would be able to get away from everything so easily. He could soar up above his problems and forget they ever existed. He'd find a secluded piece of land and live life in solitude. No one would worry about him, no one would miss him.

No one would miss him. He thinks of jumping off now. The wind rushing, rushing past his body. The feeling of weighing nothing at all. The slight dread of hitting the ground would all fade away once he does. There may be a moment of pain, but only for a moment. Only the time it takes for the light to fade from a room when you take away its source.

He sits on the edge, letting his feet dangle. The seagull returns, landing as far away from him as possible. Not even a bird wants to be close to him.

When a doctor is putting you under, they tell you to count back from ten. By the time you do, you're already out. If he fell right now, he could count to ten and hit the ground before eight.