Thank You

Seven months ago I was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. They gave me a year to live, but I’ve been in high spirits as of late. I declined treatments to help ease my pain; I’ve come to grips with the fact that my days are numbered. My days remain the same, for the most part. I roll out of bed, sheets and blanks scattered around me from the nightmares that plague me.

Next week will be my last on Earth. I know this not because I am some all-knowing oracle figure. I know this because it has been arranged. I want to die with dignity. I told my son that I wanted to sell an old record player that I had laying around and he taught me how to make an ad on Craigslist. I didn’t blatantly say that I would like to be murdered. In fact it was never mentioned at all. It would have been removed before I clicked send if it had been. About a week went by before I was graced with a response.  He wanted my record player.

The day that we met was a beautiful one. Clear skies, the shadows sprawled across the park as children played until they felt exhaustion overcome them. It was 2 PM when he strolled into my area. He sat next to me on the bench after realizing I was the only old man sitting with a record player on a bench. Extending his hand, he greeted me by saying it was a pleasure to be in my presence. I returned the sentiment and I showed him his object of desire.

He was very happy with it and when he reached into his pocket to pay me, I objected.

“Keep your money, let’s just talk.” I asked him for his name and he told me it was Richard. I reciprocated by telling him that mine was Thomas. Reaching into my interior pocket of my blue jean jacket, I pulled out of a flask of whiskey. He remarked that I was a little too old to be drinking swill from “one of those,” as he put it. We had a laugh and I took a swig, passed it to him.

“Ah, what the hell, why not?”

He tipped his head back and enjoyed the taste, I could tell he was savoring this. Maybe this meant more to him than it did to me. He handed me the container and I slipped back into my jacket.

“I don’t have much time left, I’m dying. I’ve had a brain tumor since last summer. I’m 85 and suffer enough. Will you help me?”

“Help you? How so?”

“You know how. I know all about you. How you’re struggling to make ends meet. You’re about to lose your home and possibly your family. Let me help you… help me help you.”

“How’d you find all of this out? We’ve never met. You’re old. You suck at technology.”

I chuckled.

“Don’t let my wrinkled face fool you. I was a private detective for 25 years before I was forced out by the powers that be.”

“Why? You must’ve been good at what you did if you stuck around for a quarter of a century.”

“Yeah, too good. Let’s just leave it at that. Walk with me.”

We rose up and took a walk around the park and I told him how I’d like things to go.

“I barely know you. You’re asking a stranger to kill you.”

“And asking a loved one to do it would be better?”

Richard sighed and continued to stand his ground, “You stand there in your denim garb, stupid fucking look on your face, asking me, a guy that you’ve never met in your life, to murder you in cold blood. Keep your fucking record player, I don’t want it.”

Richard let go of the player and it smashed off of the pavement, breaking into multiple pieces.

“Well that was disrespectful.”

Richard turned to walk away. I had to stop him. “Don’t do this! Come back! Please!” He stopped to look back at me. He made his way over to me at a turtle’s pace. The view from behind my glasses improved as he rejoined my presence.

“I’m not going to beg, Richard. There will be another but I want it to be you. It has to be. With one small bend of your finger, your problems are solved. I’m willing, it’s not murder.  God bless Dr. Kevorkian. God bless him, I wish he was still around to help me. I’m sorry that I’m asking you to go through with something like this, it must be tough for you. I get that. It’s just…”

He cut me off mid-sentence.

“I’ll do it. I’ll do it. When and where?”

“Next week. As long as I live to attend my grandson’s birthday party, I don’t care when. I don’t want to know. I just want it to happen.”

Richard mulled over the instructions and shook his head in agreement. “So tell me if I’m wrong but you want me to just randomly murder you? Do I get a house key?”

“I’ve already had a copy made.” I dug into my back pocket and grabbed for my wallet, opened it and gave him the spare key.

Days passed and I lived to see my grandson open what would prove to be last gift he’d receive from me. I’ll always remember his smile. I sent Richard an email afterwards telling him that the money had been wired to an account in Switzerland.

I gave my son a hug and told him that I’d be back, I was just going to grab some coffee from the shop on the corner that served the community for the past thirty or so years.

It was a dreary day, one huge cloud shielded the sunlight. As I laid my feet down on the pavement, I heard the distinct sound of a gun cocking.

This was it.

The door swung open and my son, Darrel jumped on Richard’s back. The gun kicked across the street and landed by a blue Oldsmobile parked nearby. There was a scuffle, Darrel was winning. He pinned Thomas to the concrete and reached for a brick nearby.

I didn’t stop him. I sat there and watched as my son pounded his face time and again. Small puddles of blood seeped around the sidewalk. I looked down to see the substance filling the cracks at my feet.

I looked at my son and nodded in approval. I looked down at Richard.

“Thank you.”

Speak

The driver’s side door of the green Ford Explorer slammed shut.  She knew I was furious. As I started the engine and gazed over to her, I began my rant. This was old hat to her; she knew what I was about and what I needed.  Tonight, she didn’t fight back. She listened. It was both peaceful and therapeutic. I felt like now was the only opportunity I’ll ever have to lay it all on the line.

So I did.

I told her of the sleepless nights, the pain that it brought me to know that I was losing her emotionally. She said nothing. She just continued to be fixated on the open road ahead of us. I chuckled to myself; I should’ve known that she couldn’t respond to the truth I was speaking. She never did. She’d just try to change the subject, hoping to throw my thought process off of her trail.

Not this time.

Nothing would come between me and what I had to say tonight. I refuse for that to happen. I continued on, letting her into my mind little by little. I explained why I feel the way I do. No response. My blood began to boil, she knew it pissed me off to blatantly ignore me, but what could I do? I lit a cigarette and the smoke cloud channeled across the interior.

I inhaled deeply.

Rage overcame me and I pounded on the steering wheel.  No reaction from the passenger.  Tears trickled down my face. If this didn’t work nothing would. I expressed what she meant to me, how a good portion of my life was in dedication to her. As we drove down the highway, I was swept away by the beauty of the trees surrounding us. I pulled over and removed the key from the ignition. I turned to her, and admired her in her silence.

So very beautiful.

Her shoulder length golden hair would prove to infect my thoughts for the foreseeable future. It didn’t have to come to this. I tossed my cigarette out of the window that was slightly cracked open. Watching the butt burn away, I knew that I had to say this.

I loved you.

Why did you make me do this? I didn’t want to. Now we both have to suffer the consequences. Actually, that’s not entirely true. You see, I have to live with this. Yours, on the other hand, is over with. There’s nothing I could say or do to make you speak to me. I’m an afterthought, but at least I was your last.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and stepped out of the vehicle. Walking over to her, I pulled the door open and kissed her forehead. I carried her 2 miles inward to the woods but had to venture back to get the cinder blocks that I planned to use to send her to final resting place.

She deserved better.

Desperate times call for desperate measures as they say, and this was one of the times that the cliché rang true.

This Fine City

The water from the faucet drained onto my toothbrush as my day began. I looked at myself in the mirror and could barely stand what I had become. It wasn’t always this way. I rationalize my actions by telling myself that it’s the way of the world that we live in these days. With a bad economy and the climate of the employment landscape proving to be fruitless, I did what had to be done.

Here I go again.

I’ve never taken it all and never would. I only skim a little off of the top, nobody will ever notice.  Five years ago I was a community leader, people looked up to me. In some sense they still do, but I do not feel as high on myself as I once did. It could be because I run a charity scheme that is meant to help widows of victims of the September 11^th attacks.

Fuck.

I’ve done this for many years, but to actually verbalize it, hear myself say it, admit it to myself, really struck a chord deep within me.  I never rip them off completely, they never walk away empty handed.

My phone gyrated on the sink where I left it. It was a text message from my assistant, Allison. It was a reminder that I had a speaking arrangement at 2 PM. I can’t even recall how I got to be this way. It’s all a blur. This was never my intention, I would much rather be a regular Joe, cooking at a diner somewhere instead of being expected to be responsible one, the leader of my people.

Life never goes the way that you plan it to. The most successful people in the world have done unspeakable acts to get to where they are now, me included. It’s a fair trade. You give up your morality and compassion to be somebody of importance. The ends justify the means to me.

I run the water and wash my face before stepping out of the bathroom, grabbing my phone in the process.  As I made my way through my lavish living quarters, I made my way to the refrigerator and took a sip of orange juice out of the container before placing it back inside.

People would literally kill to be in my position. Although I may be morally bankrupt, I have the final say as to what in your life is acceptable. As long as you’re under my rule, you will accept my decisions with a smile.

I stepped outside and took in the day. Not a cloud in the sky, despite the weather experts calling for scattered thunderstorms. There was a slight breeze that pressed against my face. This place is mine, and I have done what is necessary to claim it. My finger squeezed the remote to unlock the doors of my Prius.

Yes, a Prius. I hated being seen in the fucking thing, but it was imperative to keep up appearances. I pulled out of my driveway and was on my way to my obligation. There was no other route to where I was expected than to head through the ghetto.        

Seeing the poverty stricken used to affect me deeply, but I’ve since gotten over it. Some would say that I’ve forgotten my roots, I look at it as I have made it out of this situation and it’s not my responsibility to help you get out of yours. It’s a fair system. Work hard and things will work out for you. I’m living proof.

At a red light I peered over to see an elderly woman pushing a grocery cart down the sidewalk. I wondered what it would be like to be her, to have lived her life. This was supposed to be golden years of her life, yet she was as poor as poor can be. Maybe more than that. The thought crossed my mind to give her a 50 out of my wallet, but the light changed to green.

Tough luck. 

I pressed on the gas and was minutes away from my destination. I turned the radio on and played with the tuning dial. Horse shit, per usual.

I pulled into the parking lot and stepped out of the vehicle. From afar I could see a man being restrained by a handful of guards. I ventured over to the area and seen what the commotion was about. Upon seeing my face, the man fought harder to break away. He shouted that I’m the reason why the we’re in such a shit storm.

A guard came to me and whispered that this man had every intention of killing me on this day and that they had confiscated the weapon. It was a Colt .45.

Jesus, this guy wanted me dead, twice.

I applauded his great work and told him I must go, people were waiting for me. He nodded his head and I turned my back to him while stepping towards the door. I swung the glass double doors open and was greeted by a group of people who had heard the news. Hugs and support were being given. I accepted, but eventually shoed them away.

I glanced at my phone to see that the time was 1:53 PM. They knew it was time for business. I thanked them and said I’d see them in the crowd.

Here I was, alone again to face this inevitable experience on my lonesome. Standing behind a curtain, I waited to be announced. The voice told the people that I was moments away from stepping out. I pushed through the veil and stood at the podium that was set up for me.

“As mayor of this fine city…”

Untitled

Here I sit. Pen in my hand, blank page lying in front of me. This feeling has overcome me, a euphoric rush that I can’t exactly describe. It hits me like a wave as I peer around the room that would prove to be the last I’ll ever know. The smooth mahogany desk has been home to many of my works. I do not believe in the use of electronic devices when it comes to my work. Everything I have ever written has been done so with the stroke of a hand. Some friends and colleagues have called me crazy for this practice, but I’ve always felt that it meant more coming directly from the writer’s hand.  The curtains allowed for a special shade of sunlight to be let into the room.

I sat back and took it all in, the simple beauty of it all. I’ve been racking my brain for over two hours, struggling to find the words to couple with this sheet of paper but to no avail. I don’t think people really understand the finality of death. I am not one of those people. A great life was not something I’ve lead, but an interesting one was for sure something I could stake claim to. I placed my hands on my head and leaned my head forward onto the desk in a drunken stupor, almost cursing myself for not being capable of doing this the right way.

There is just too much to say, too many people to acknowledge. Could you imagine being left out of a suicide note? That would probably be more damaging for the loved one that the act itself. Regardless, this wasn’t the issue. A writer’s suicide note would have to be like no other. You’d be expected to speak on the evils of life and death both. It’s just too much to ask for at this point in time.

To express my love to you, the one I’ve never met. The ones that I have met, the people that make my life worth living are the same that made it worth ending. You do not deserve what I bring into your life. Most of the people that love me actually love a fabricated version of me. One that sincerely hopes all is well, but doesn’t want it to be, without me around. Is it wrong to take what you’ve asked for? To go to extreme lengths to prove a point? To take my life just to prove that I mattered, even if I’m not around to see it?

Yes.

This is who I am, this is what I do. All I’ve ever wanted was to be respected by all and loved by you. What I have given has proven to fall on blind eyes and deaf ears. There is nothing else I can do. I made a promise to never give up on you, and so it shall be. To have given up on myself before I have thought of letting go of you.

What does this say?

I’m not entirely sure. In death I’ll be cemented as your personal legend, the one who never expected too much, the one who was always there in your time of need, the one who believed in you when nobody else would.

In life, I was the one you took for granted. I could never bring myself to willingly remove myself from your life, which would be far too hurtful for us both. Instead of taking myself out of our equation, I will remove myself from the grand scheme instead.

I reach into the drawer and pull out my half empty bottle of Jameson and pour myself a shot in the glass that sat mere inches from the letter.  I tilted my head back and thoroughly enjoyed the golden substance swishing around, burning my cheeks as I held it in. I can only imagine what this shit does to my liver.

I rose out of the chair and walked to the kitchen once swallowing the whiskey. Progress was made. I was happy with the outcome of this letter. I grabbed a chair that was stationed around the kitchen table and dragged it across the floor into my study. Removing the belt from my blue jeans, I tied it to the pull up bar that spent its days in the closet. The previous owner of the home must have been into exercise and staying in shape. Unfortunately, the current occupant was a mad writer.

Opening the closet door, I realized that this was not the ideal place for this to happen. I gazed up and seen the ceiling fan. Perhaps this would do.

I climbed onto the chair and wrapped the belt around the main piece of the furniture and gave it a tight pull to ensure its security. Once I knew that it would in fact hold me, I placed the belt around my throat and kicked the chair away. I flailed for half a minute. It was over. The note remained in my hand, I clenched it with every ounce of my being.

I remember two things.

The first being that the very last thing that I seen with my very own eyes was the note. As I glanced down for one final look, a smile came over me. I did the right thing. The page was empty. And my last thought was of you.

Forever Again

There was not a star in sight, they were instead blanketed by thick clouds that sprawled throughout the harsh winter sky. As I gazed above, contemplating today’s events, it pained me to relive the defining moment of our country to this very day. Our twisted capitalistic system had failed us once and for all, and while our charismatic leader promised brighter days to come, you’d have to be a rube not to see through his yarn of bullshit. Deception had become a thing to expect in this era.

                I carried my briefcase down the stairwell and into the flock of people awaiting the subway to take them to whatever personal hell awaited them. To consider what I have as a gift would be disrespectful to anybody it affected in my lifetime. It’s a terrible thing to endure, really. After four seconds of consistent eye contact with any given person, I am given their past, present and future. I know what will happen today, tomorrow, next week, all the way until the day that they die. Most of the time the flashes move so quickly, I cannot quite comprehend all of it but I always walk away with something.

                That is not to say that everybody I encounter has a dreadful end awaiting them. Hell, just last week I locked eyes with an elderly man that would win the lottery yesterday. Unfortunately, the initial shock of his numbers matching would lead to his death. The winning ticket would prove to be a source of evil for his remaining loved ones who would inevitably squabble over the earnings and create a media shit storm that would put a pretty penny in all of their pockets. The worst part about this situation (and many others like it) was that these people had forgotten what life was all about.. love. A financial crisis can bring out the worst in everyone if you’re not well off to begin with but who would trade it all for sudden wealth?

I locked eyes with a mid 30’s business type as he gave me a quick head nod to acknowledge me. He looked interesting enough, so I shot back a wave and planted the seed in his mind that we may have known each other. As he came to get a closer look he told me I must be mistaken and went on his way. Little did he know, I got exactly what I needed. I peered into his future, but instead of brief flashes, I was shown a long, drawn out process.

Not much changed content wise, his death was shown in graphic detail. As I went through this vision of mine in my head, I quickly realized what was different this time. Never before have I stepped in and forced my own will upon fate, but seeing his children and wife sob while identifying his mangled corpse, I simply could not live with myself if I had done nothing at all.

I forced my way through the droves of people in the subway station in order to seek him out before he met his ultimate demise. Pushing through the flock of humanity, I spotted him weaving through a group of elderly folks. He came to a stop, presumably to wait for the train that would prove to be the culprit of his death. My vision spoke to me quite clearly, he would lose his balance in front of the oncoming train and end his days as a bloody mess.

This didn’t seem fair to me. I had to do something. For once in my life, I could use this curse as a gift. Use it to prevent a death rather just sit idly by and watch it unfold. I’m certain that the fact that his wife and children would be on board the harbinger of his finale had a bit to do with my decision to intervene.

He leaned against a nearby wall. I approached him but his reaction was not what I expected. The man raised his voice and asked me what I wanted from him. Maybe it was the beard that I allowed to get out of control that made him think I was a crazy person, which in reality I am, but that was besides the point. I was trying to save his life and all he could do was show how unappreciative he really was. Did he even care about his family? What would he do with a second chance at life? I questioned whether it would be worth it to test what his destiny had planned for him.

I scampered away with my head hanging low and took a seat at the far east wall. The rattling of the tracks echoed throughout the structure. I rose up and walked towards the tracks. My mind was made, I knew what I must do. I walked towards the people waiting for the train, and eventually passed them by.

I climbed down onto the tracks of the train. The light approaching, tears rolled down my face. My last thoughts would be riddled with all of the people I had allowed to be taken away. What I was given was in fact a gift, I just did not know how to put it to use.

The train approached and I turned my head towards the businessman.

“I did this for you!”

25 to Life

24 years, 363 days I have sat in this personal hell. Anyone who says the death penalty is cruel and unsual

punishment has clearly never spent a day in prison. In two days they have promised me my freedom

from a crime I did not commit. I do not come from wealth  so for someone like me, just being accused

is a conviction.  I was handed a public defender who held my life in his hands. Needless to say, I was

doomed from the get-go. The trial itself seemed to be longer than my stay here. To be falsely convicted

by a jury of your own peers on nothing more than circumstantial evidence feels like an eternity. Each

day feeling like three, but at least the nights flew by.

I like to think when I’m alone. Think about the what if’s and coulda been’s. What if it was another poor

sap at the wrong place at the right time? When it’s a cops murder they come down on you like a ton of

bricks. Relentlessly clawing and tearing at your conscience, drawing out a confession that doesn’t exist.

Why me? Because I’m me. This is my destiny and I have accepted that long ago. I always had an interest

in criminal justice, which makes this even more ironic. I used to believe in the system until it made an

example out of me. It actually did more than that, it took everything that I truly believed in and shoved

it in my face like a playground bully picking on the new kid. I guess in a way that is fairly accurate. The

new kid only gets picked on for so long before rising up and coming to grips with the fact that something

must be done about it.

Officer Tio rattled my cell bars with his stick just before the doors cleared my entry. He told me that my

cousin was here to see me. It was always a pleasure to hear those words, but it was particularly special

today.  I smiled as I exited my quarters as he walked me to the visitation room. On the day of my

conviction my cousin Ronnie told me that he would be here to meet me face to face two days before

my release. We talked about what we’d do if I was found guilty, which we knew deep down

was the most realistic outcome of this whole thing.

He testified at my trial and did a damn good job of it, but it just wasn’t enough. Despite them not having

a murder weapon, I was sentenced to 25 years to life for the murder of Officer Walter Jennings. Being

a good citizen ended up being a damning decision.  The only “proof”, and I use that term loosely, they

had was my hands being covered in his blood. Ballistic tests came back negative but like I said, when it’s

a cop they don’t care who they punish as long as they put a face to the crime.

Officer Tio opened the door and let me in to see Ronnie for the first time in months. As much as I knew

that he wouldn’t forget about his promise to me, I always doubted it for some reason. It completed me

to see him here today, to know that we would finally have a chance to make a difference.

He gave me a hug and commented on my stubble and orange jump suit. He jokingly asked if it was

laundry day because it was partly faded. We had a laugh and the tone got more serious. He asked me if

I was sure that I wanted to go through with this, and I shook my head yes. He shook my hand and

slipped a razor blade up my sleeve. I went along with it, pretending to cough. With my hand next to

my mouth I sneakily placed it under my tongue.

Ronnie stood up and gave me a hug for the last time, tears rolling down his face. I looked him in the eye

and nodded, as if telling him that it would be ok. He understood and walked out of the room, and I

followed just behind him. My entire sentence was leading up to this moment, I thought about it day in

and day out, careful to never be a problem prisoner and gaining the trust of the guards. I played the role

of model citizen even though I wanted to spit in their face. Every last one of them. For ever day that

they knowingly turned the blind eye to physical and sexual assault on not only just me, but other

inmates as well. Some would say that they deserved, and who’s to say that they don’t, but do I? Does

an innocent man deserve to be treated like this? I was praying for the needle by year eight.

 I returned back to my cell and received nothing more than a routine strip search. At nightfall I began

work on the note that would define me. I wrestled with the message I should leave, the words I should

use.

It wasn’t before long that I decided on the message I’d leave behind. I didn’t have a choice but to write it

in crayon, which undoubtedly made it seem more comedic than it should have been. Everything was

going as planned, 90 minutes after the lights went out I had my note written.

Tomorrow morning they’d find me on the floor of the place I have called home for the past 24 years and

364 days, dead. With a note on my bed reading “I was an innocent man.”

The Real Mr. Thompson

Mr. Thompson appeared as normal as a regular Joe to anyone who knew him. One of those that

were a bit too much of a square for his own good, never really enjoying life to the fullest. It wasn’t that

he didn’t have friends or wasn’t well liked, it was actually the opposite. He had various acquaintances

around the workplace, coworkers would often invite him to parties that he’d decline nine times out of

ten.  On the off occasion that he did turn up, the invite was realized to be a regret. Upon his first week

of employment at the Hewlett Packard distribution center in Des Moines, everyone thought it would

just take a bit longer than most to come out of his shell so to speak.

                As time went on it became more clear that he preferred to keep to himself. He was an

asset to the company and respected by his peers, but never accepted by them. He had been planning

this night for over two and a half months, and the day would arrive tomorrow.

                As he undressed from his work clothes after his ten hour shift, he strolled into the bathroom

and took a long, reflective look at his face. He looked no different than yesterday, but on this inside he

felt like a brand new man, which was ironic considering the circumstances. He thought about showering

before calling it a night. Mr. Thompson decided against it, tossed his clothes into the hamper and

crawled into bed. The shower could wait until morning, he thought to himself, it was better off to start

fresh in every way in what he determined to be would be his final day on Earth.  

                He reached under his bed and pulled out a notepad and thumbed to a page with a creased

corner. There was a pen attached to the cover, which he removed and savagely added on to the half

completed page.

                Room service knocked at the door, he shook his head in dismay and told them he was sleeping

and to come back in the morning. He found it odd that room service would come at this hour, but didn’t

read too much into it. Mr. Thompson collected his thoughts and finished his sentence, thanking

Jennifer from accounting for all of the times she had asked him out for drinks after work and the fact

that she had been one of the only ones he felt truly respected him on more than just a human level.

She appreciated the work he did and she felt likewise.

                He wrote that he wished there were more people like her, more people that would make

the effort to reach out to another. There were a select few that could read through his depression, he

had become a master of concealing his true feelings at the age of 15 when it was recommended that he

seek professional help after the school counselor  saw how his grades had slipped so dramatically.

                His father wouldn’t stand for it and beat him to a bloody mess, screaming for him to, “be a

man.”

                While his dad had been dead for nearly 17 years, it was a wound that refused to close and

plagued him until this very night.  A tear drop hit the page as he thought about how is father had treated

him as a child. He swung the blanket off of him and pulled open the drawer on the far right of the bed

frame.

                The contents of the drawer consisted of a bible and his depression medication. He planned to

swallow the remaining doses tomorrow night. He twisted the cap off and poured them into his palm,

slowly counting them one by one. He tallied seventeen and felt that this would be sufficient enough to

get the job done.

                As he poured them back into the bottle he heard a scream from a near-by room and wondered

whether he should check out the situation at hand. Weighing the options, he deduced that he didn’t

much to lose. If nothing more he was presented the opportunity to go out as a hero.

                Racing into the bathroom, he grabbed his pants and shirt from earlier and threw them on

almost as fast as he raced into the room itself. The door opened slowly, and he stepped out

with the stealth of a cat stalking a bird, doing his best James Bond impression.

                The screams were getting more consistent and he realized that they were coming from

two doors down from his room. The screams began to become muffled, as if this woman was now being

strangled or restrained with a weapon of some kind. He knew it was in his best interest to have a game

plan before entering but adrenaline took over.

                Suddenly he found himself standing at the open door, watching a middle aged woman with a

pillow being forced over her face. Mr. Thompson sprinted towards the attacker, who had a mask on, and

dove on his back. The attacker was caught off guard and flung himself backwards, but Mr. Thompson

did not loosen his grip in the slightest. The attempted murderer began to roll around on the hotel floor

until he lost consciousness. Mr. Thompson finally let go and went to check on the victim, who told him

that he was ok.

                She began to  thank him profusely, telling him that he was a hero and had undoubtedly saved

her life. He accepted the praise and sat on the bed next to her.

                “Call the police. Now. God only know how long we have until he comes to.”

                She nodded in agreement, and walked out to the balcony to speak to them. He followed

shortly thereafter and overheard her say that this man approached her door claiming to be room

service. Mr. Thompson chuckled to himself and stood by until she hung up.

                “I honestly can’t thank you enough. If it wasn’t for you I’d be..”

                “Listen. It’s not a problem, really. I’m just doing something that anybody would have done.

Do you mind if I head back into my room for a minute? Tell the police I’d be more than willing to

tell them everything they want to know when they get here.”

                She agreed, and Mr. Thompson headed back into his room. He seen the pills on the end table

and his notepad on the bed. He walked over and grabbed the notepad. Staring at the bottle of pills, he

grabbed them next and walked into the bathroom.

                He opened the notepad and flipped to the page that contained his suicide letter. The tearing of

the page was heard throughout the room. Mr Thompson crumpled the sheet and tossed it into the

toilet. He turned the pill bottle upside down, and they suffered the same fate.

He watched as they were swallowed into the city sewage system and promptly walked away as

they were out of sight.