The Last Note

Dedicated to Vala and everybody else in the Village, who pull me away from my own Last Notes.

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A whimper. A simple whimper is how his life would end, not the bang that he had always joked about. There would be no Honor Guard at his funeral, no comrades there to mourn the loss of a brother, no people talking about all the good he did. For this young man did no go out with a roar, looking Death in the eyes and wrestling for more time on this Earth. No, a small and weak whimper, a look of defeat as Death came to carry him away. For this man has committed suicide, giving up on the world that has given up on him. He had friends and family who tried their best to support him, but they could not see the hurt and the pain that this man suppressed to look happy. How the walls he had constructed to keep each mask firmly in place held strong no matter how much they tried to tear them down.

He was constantly told he was loved, that the sunshine of love was constantly shining down upon him. But when he looked around for that love, all he saw were the rainclouds of abandonment pouring their heavy loads down, soaking him to the bone and preventing him from escaping their grasp. So, he stayed, rusting in the rain as if he were simply some forgotten machine. Occasionally his cries for help would bring somebody over to him. Their umbrella providing a temporary reprieve from the rusting brought by the rain. But as soon as he would start to move, they would leave him. Some would stay longer or come again, but in the end, all would leave him to whimper and rust away in the rain once again.

It's here, after years of this abuse, that he finally snaps. Not a violent snap that shakes him free from the rust and gives him the power to finally be free from the rain, but a small pathetic snap that signals he has given up. He thinks of all those who had come and provided temporary support against the rain, and how they had all left in the end. As consolidation he writes a note, not wanting them to always be wondering why he would take such drastic actions. It wasn't typed, no, this thing had to be personal, it had to be handwritten. The pen was heavy in his hand as he wrote his apology to the world for not being strong enough, for showing his weakness to all, for not being worthy of living in the wonder they others called the world. Setting the paper next to the keys, where it would be found instantly when somebody walked into the house days from now when they started to wonder why he was not answering them.

So it is now, the time of reckoning for the man as he sat in the bathtub, knife held in his hand, that he prepared himself for what was to come. He was never somebody of importance, a nobody, and he would die a nobody's death, Alone and self-inflicted. Resting the blade against his wrist, he made his first cut. Knowing where to cut and how deep to cut from reading on human anatomy, he quickly made four cuts on each wrist. Setting the knife down on the floor, he slid deeper into the tub, already feeling the pain of betrayal, of abandonment, of failure, wash away with the blood, his life water, down the drain. He felt tired, knowing the loss of blood would reach critical soon, and so he embraced sleep, soon falling into a deep sleep with no hope of waking.

After he fell asleep, he saw it, Death, watching and waiting with a sinister smile as only Death could have. Each passing second saw Death draw closer and closer until he was right in front of the man. Death reached out, the young man giving a small whimper and looked down in defeat, prepared for the embrace of Death to take him away. Except nothing happened. Death went right through him, unable to embrace the young man and carry him away. Before the man could do anything, Death gave an unnatural shriek, furious at having a soul taken from him. Confused, the young man tried to move and embrace Death, unwilling to stay in Purgatory. But something stopped him, he was being held back from Death, just as Death was being held back from him. Suddenly he was blinded, an unearthly white light shined from behind him, illuminating Death and pushing the creature back.

He stood there, watching his goal being pushed away from him but unable to act. For at the same time the white light had appeared, those who had stuck by him the longest appeared, urging him to come back to them, that his life wasn't over yet and he had so much to live for. Unwilling to go back, he chased after Death, but no matter how far he ran the light was always at his back, chasing Death away and those who cared for him were always around, urging him to turn around and come home, to Live. Finally, tired from all the running, the young man relented and reversed directions, finding it easier to walk towards the lights and the voices then towards Death.

Walking through the light, the man felt his spirit lifted, moving away from the oppressive place it had been before. This young man would live as he found himself in a hospital room, surrounded by strange and familiar faces, but all familiar in their support for the young man now laying before them with bandages on his wrists and an IV in his arm. Confused to how he was there, he found out one of his friends had indeed heard the snap that signified the beginning of the end and had come over, finding the Note and him in the tube, still bleeding from the cuts but already asleep.

There would be no Honor Guard at his funeral, no comrades there to mourn the loss of a brother, no people talking about all the good he did. For there would be no funeral for this young man, not yet. For he would find he was actually cared for, those out there did love him, he was not an embarrassment. That young man turned his life around, promising to help others as those around him had helped him. That young man....that young man. He is luckier than most by having such caring friends who would come, even from across oceans, to give him a hug and tell him he is worth it.

Now this man is older, one of those who rescued him is his wife, and they have children. Nothing remains from his attempted suicide all those years ago. The building demolished, the knife melted down. The only things remaining are the scars, both physical and emotional, and the Note. That Note, the thing that saved his life from the very event he had created it to explain away. That Note which now hung framed in his office, a reminder that no matter how bad things got, they couldn't get any worse than before and he always had those who had been around him all those years ago in the Hospital. Helping him recover physical and emotional; never again leaving him to rust in the rains of abandonment.