He sat there trembling. He held a pen. And his hands were shaking.
He stared at the blank piece of paper. He couldn’t start a word. He remained clueless for a minute. Then the words abruptly sank through his mind. He was then certain what was happening – the start of an end.
He wrote without pausing. Emotions.Thoughts.Pains.
He wrote the last letter of his life.
He wrote for her – the girl he had secretly loved for years now. The primordial source of his every depression, she broke his heart without her knowing.
He wrote for them – the folks who had brought him up to this messy world. They love him but he feels strangled. He loves them and this he had long struggled to prove.
He wrote for himself – the weary ego who couldn’t seem to understand things too clear. The questions are still hanging. So he wished he is.
He folded the paper and left it to the desk, leaving things unclear and unanswered.
The gallows are waiting, he thought. He climbed up the stool. He stood still. The rope hung.
He placed his head inside the knot. He cried.
He thought of her. Her smiles were in a sudden flashback. He cried with phantasmagoria of her.
He thought of them. Their dreams of a better son shall remain a dream. I want to breathe, he uttered. I want freedom. I want to leave.
He thought of the laughter. He thought how his best friends would cry. He grinned while tears ran down his cheeks. He thought of the memories.
They love you, a voice within him argued.
I know. They’ll understandd. He answered.
He stood still on the stool. And prayed, forgive me.
He cried. He sobbed.
And in that last second of his life, he kicked the stool.
The questions hung. Also he.