What if he felt pain when he died? An orange bottle and some small blue pills were scattered out in a jumble. He wasn't sure how many he'd have to take, or even if he wanted to take them. He'd been staring like this for the last ten minutes, moving only once to brush aside his dyed - black hair.

"Should I do it? can I do it?" was the only thing running through his head. The pills were a peaceful shade of blue, comforting and somehow inviting to him. After all, that's why he wanted to take them: to finally be at peace.

"No, I can't," he said aloud, quietly but forcefully. He was terrified, truth be told. What if there was pain involved in dying?
"Of course you can’t, you coward. That’s all you are – a coward. You’re afraid to live, afraid to die… What the hell aren’t you afraid of?"
He knew it was true. He was deathly afraid of the unknown. He couldn’t stop wondering if there would be any discomfort.

"It couldn't be any worse than right now..." The thought crept into his mind. He grew pale and shivered as the memories invaded, and in vain tried to warm himself with an old throw blanket.
"You helpless moron. You can’t comfort yourself with a blanket. There’s only one way to make you feel better, and you know it. You’re just too much of a fearful –"
He stopped himself. He couldn't take any more criticism, even from himself. His poor, pathetic, cowardly –
"STOP IT!" he yelled to nobody. Curling back into his blanket, hoping for even the slightest bit of comfort, he tried to relax.

He stared again at the pills, the final result of years of pain. His father, gone. It was his fault. Two years ago, his father had died in a car accident on the way to school, to pick him up from drama practice. "It was your fault…"
"I know."

His love, unrequited. He'd sent her flowers, written her songs, poems, but none of it was good enough. "You're not good enough. You're never good enough."
"I know."
His career as an artist--utterly hopeless. No matter how hard he tried, he could never fully express the angst he was feeling with his six sketching pencils. And if he did, he couldn't sell them: nobody liked them. "Why'd you choose to be an artist? You were never any good."
"I know."
Nothing ever had seemed to go his way, and he wasn't sure if it was his fault or the peoples' around him.
"It's your fault…" His mind spoke to him in whispers. "It's always been your fault."
He didn't want to believe it, but it had to be true. He felt too much pain for anyone but himself to have caused. He had simply been too lonely for too long... there was nobody to care when it happened to him, anyways. He doubted more than a very few people would mourn. Soon everybody would forget he'd ever existed. To them he'd be nothing but an aging tombstone. In short, he'd be lonelier in death than in life.

"But I wouldn't know I was lonely, would I?"
"Of course not; it's your escape."
He kept to his habit of thinking aloud. He figured only his mother would ever come to see him. He would leave her a note and go through with it, he decided, firmly this time.

Silently he rose from the couch and went to his desk, taking from a small drawer his best navy stationary and a pen. A small chuckle rose from his throat, though he was unsure why this seemed funny to him. Was he enjoying causing his mother pain, or was it simply nerves? Probably nerves, he decided, but… he didn't want to hurt his mother. She was the one person who had caused him no harm.
"She won't care," he told himself. "Will she?"
"No one else cared, why would she?" He hesitantly began to write:
"Dear mum,


I'm sorry..."
He wasn't, but it seemed only fair to tell her so. It was the proper thing to write in a letter like this; he was sure. What else could he say?

"I hope you aren't too upset, but it couldn't be helped. It wasn't your fault."
He added his signature and read over the short note he'd written carefully. It seemed cold and formal, but he wasn't sure what else he should or could say.
"The less she hears from you the better."
He put the note on the table after neatly folding it. Hands shaking, he took the pills, all of them, since he wasn't sure how many he needed. Much to his surprise, he felt anything but peace. Drowsy yes, but certainly not peace. He felt panicked, and was disturbed the pills weren't working instantly. "What did you expect?" He laid himself onto the couch clumsily and contemplated calling 9-1-1, wondering if all this was a mistake.
"Of course it wasn't a mistake, you weak man."
"But maybe…"
"No. You're being your usual cowardly self, forever backing out of things you know are right, the person nobody wants to see. Don't you understand?!"
"Yes, I understand…"
He started feeling drowsy soon, and welcomed it. It was certainly better than the panic. It almost felt awkward, lying there aware that soon he'd be dead. Maybe somebody would care…
"No one will care, you fool."
The voice seemed far away now, and soon he was overcome by a strong feeling of loneliness that would never disappear.