A Short Story of a Lonely Guy

      The keyboard chattered under Matt’s fingertips, but the words wouldn’t come. He’d type nonsense, racking his brain to figure out how to begin and erase it just as quickly. “God dammit,” he said with a sigh and poured another shot of poison from the bottle of Maker's Mark on his writing desk. He popped an Ativan in his mouth and washed it back with liquid fire. 

      He looked away from the desk, staring into the void that was his empty apartment. There was a bed, a television set on top of a dresser that was too fucking small because he couldn't be bothered to read the dimensions on Amazon and his writing desk. That was all the furnishing he'd brought. The kitchen had a mini fridge, right next to the regular fridge that didn't work, courtesy of the meth head landlord. The walls were bare save for a few comic book posters and cobwebs left behind by previous tenants that he had no intention of cleaning either. 

      Matt moved to apartment 3A at the beginning of February, roughly three weeks ago. Since the move, he'd cut off everyone that wasn't crucial to his survival. He talked to his ex, his son, and two friends, and that was it. He dealt with talking to coworkers but avoided it like they were all walking piles of flaming trash, which is how he would've described them in the best of times, so that wasn't actually new. He had become a hermit. 

      At first, Matt took kindly to the lifestyle, he was excited even. Then he spent his first night alone in the apartment, which he would soon think of as his own personal hell. The silence left him feeling hollow. His chest was tight and after an hour of staring at the ceiling, listening to the absence of sound, tears began to fall, and his panic attack left him unresponsive to reason or reality. 

      The memory made him snap out of his dissociative state and he looked back down at his keyboard. He then began to write. To whom it may concern, no sooner than he typed it, he held the backspace down again. “What kind of an arrogant prick,” he began but cut himself off, going back to work. 

      Look, I don't know who's gonna read this, or if anyone will at all for that matter. However, I owe everyone an explanation for my actions and choices, so here it goes. Most people know I haven't been doing so well. I'm not good at hiding pain, and I make my business public far too often even if I keep it vague. 

      The past several months awakened something in me that I thought to have been long gone. As it turns out, it was just lying dormant, waiting for the opportunity to consume me again. I’m talking, of course, about the undeniable urge, no, the need to take my life. You see, dear friends, I am not, nor have I ever been, nor will I ever be, a good person. Perhaps that deserves a little rephrasing, so let’s go with, a good enough person. 

      I’ve tried, sure, I mean who the fuck doesn’t, right? It’s never enough though. Everyone says it is, that I am a good person, that I am “enough,” but the thing they don’t see is that it’s not about their perception, their feelings, or their goddamn, mind-numbing, insufferable opinions. It’s about how I feel about myself. So here I sit, alone in apartment 3A, for the last night of a short life that’s lasted way too long. I’m choosing to spend this last night writing to the people who impacted me the most. Don’t get all antsy if you’re mentioned though, this isn’t thirteen reasons why, I’m not playing the blame game or any of that petty bullshit. This is just meant to tie up my loose ends. 

      First, I’d like to address my beloved ex-wife, Taylor. Hey there, long time no talk. I mean, we’ve yelled, and fought, but when’s the last time we talked? I can’t remember. Regardless, you were the most influential person I’ve ever met. We had a lot of good times and a lot of bad, but we were always there for one another. Until we weren’t, of course. I lay here awake every night and imagine you lying next to me. I miss the feel of your soft porcelain skin, pressed against mine. I miss sharing a bed with a companion. Mostly, I miss the feeling that came from having someone care about me. 

      Matt paused then, making a break for the mini-fridge for another Pabst Blue Ribbon. He popped the top, and another Ativan for good measure, guzzling down the skunked beer to wash it back. He peered out the large front window, looking directly out at the center of town. Stray cars passed by, illuminated slightly by the half of the street lamps that worked. 

      And down to the nitty gritty, you all know I’m nothing if not honest, I miss the sex a lot too. I miss smoking cigarettes after in bed, falling asleep, and burning holes in the covers because we were way too fucking stoned. Ahh, the good old days. Now it’s time to talk about the not-fun parts. 

      There were multiple times in your life when you needed a grown man to be your partner, and I never really could be that for you. It took me nine years to give up the bottle. No matter how much you told me my drinking was negatively impacting you, that it was ruining our relationship, destroying my relationship with others, I just didn’t care. In the end, I didn’t even quit for you, I quit because I finally thought it was time to give it a rest. That must have been so hard for you. I’m sorry. 

      Then, who could forget my inability to change my other shitty behaviors? I was always the person that was working on changing, I just never could get anywhere with it, could I? Every time we’d fight I’d demand we fix things on the fly rather than giving you time to cool down. I’d yell over you, block you from leaving, push and push until you literally couldn’t fucking take it anymore. You’d snap, and I’d play the victim, rinse, and repeat. We did that for so long, and then when you couldn’t take it anymore, once again, I could only see myself as the victim. A recurring theme in my life that I’m just now seeing and that I don’t like very much. I don’t know what kind of person does that to people they care about, but it’s not a good one. 

      Anyway, the drugs and drink are cutting in, and I still have people to talk to, so love ya beautiful. See you in hell. 

      He sat back in his chair then, completely lost with how to start the next entry. How do you tell someone who looks at you like a superhero that you’re leaving them behind? At that moment he thought about deleting the file, but he knew he couldn’t do that. They needed an explanation. He would at least leave them with that. 

      Hey tiny chief, I wanna start by saying I love you, and I’m so sorry because I know this has to feel shitty. I promised I would always be there for you, to love and protect you. Here’s the thing about promises, kid, they can’t always be kept. 

      I’ll always love you, and be in your heart. And if there’s any sort of afterlife or ghosts or anything like that, I’ll do what I can to look out for you. Here’s the thing though; the man you see when you look at me now isn’t your dad anymore. It’s just a husk of what once was. 

      I feel like I’m doing more harm than good by sticking around, man. I hate that cause I think that’s probably what my dad thought too. With that being said, you’ll probably hate me for this, and that’s okay. I understand, and I still love you the same. You’re my world kid, and I’m sorry I can’t stay here with you. I want you to know that you are loved and that leaving you here without me is the hardest decision a person could ever have to come to. You’ll grow to be ten times the man I ever was, and you’ll do better than I did. I promise. 

      The tears came now. He had been fighting them back, but the floodgates were open and there was no closing them this time. He ate two more small pills, downed the rest of the beer, and turned back to the computer. The mixing of drugs and alcohol was only serving one purpose tonight. He was ensuring that he was on a timed schedule to finish this note that he’d put off for so long. He couldn’t die before it was done, and time was running out. 

      Alex, I want to start by saying I appreciate how much you’ve been here for me these last few months. It takes a lot to listen to a grown man sob into the phone and comfort them about matters you’re not even involved in. You barely knew the situation because you only ever heard my side and you still told me how it was. If I was being an asshole, sometimes I was in the wrong, I’m not always the victim, but it’s okay cause I’ll figure out how to be happy again someday and maybe even grow a little from this, and so on. Those are all things you said to me and I’m sorry the thing about learning to be happy again didn’t come true.

      I'm sorry buddy. Honestly, I'm not growing at all. I'm shrinking in fact. The whole world seems to have tripled in size and now I am just a small insignificant insect, afraid of all the large things around me. You did help me when I needed it though. More importantly, you helped me when I needed a friend. I needed a friend more than anything because I hadn’t had a real one in a long time. 

      I wasn’t always great to you though. I knew you were also struggling, but everything was still about me. That’s not what a good friend does, and it is not what a good person does. I’m sorry. 

      Matt flew into a coughing fit, quickly covering his mouth with his hands. When he pulled them away, they were covered in crimson. He grabbed a dish towel to dry them, and without hesitation, returned to his computer. The keys tapped quickly under his fingertips as he began the end of the letter. 

      Hey, Doc, you’re probably surprised you made the list. I am too honestly, considering I’ve known you all of ten minutes. You earned your spot here though, and I mean that in a good way. I met you in what was the hardest part of my life, the darkest part of my life, and unfortunately the end of my life. 

      We’ve been talking every day for a few months now, and I feel like I owe you an explanation. You see, you built me up when I was feeling low. You gave me compliments when I was feeling worthless and undeserving. You gave me affection when I felt like I would never feel it again. Above everything else, you allowed me to truly open up and be my true self at a time when I was closing myself off from everyone else. I can’t thank you enough for that. 

      Unfortunately, my time is running short, so I can’t say all that I’d like to or all that deserves to be said. So anyway, thanks for everything, you giant fucking nerd. I know I’ve never said this to you out loud, but I love you. 

      To those that stuck with me and read all of this, thank you. I feel like I should list a few honorable mentions so, shout out to the fam, right? I mean sure, I probably could’ve given some of you an explanation right? Oh well, y’all owed me a lot of explanations I never got as well, so suck it. 

Love, Matt. 

      He hit the print button, and once he heard the ancient machine fire up, he stumbled to his feet and made his way to the kitchen. He pulled open the knife drawer and pulled out his best-serrated knife, and then he walked to the large front window, looking down over the center of town. Matt set the blade to his wrist and dragged it harshly in an upward motion. He switched hands and did the same to the other wrist, the best he could with his dominant hand being much weaker than before. 

      He took a few steps back and dropped the knife letting it clang to the ground. He looked toward the window, began to run, and jumped straight through the glass. He’d leaned forward last minute to ensure his head would hit first. In those final seconds, he saw flashing lights and was aware of sirens along with car horns honking, and people shouting but they were all inaudible to him. 

      When his face connected with the pavement, he felt the bones crush inward, deflating his face entirely. He heard a loud snap and a pop and then saw, heard, and felt nothing as everything faded to black.