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He lit up a cigarette. His worries and problems haunted him. He could never forget. His indescressions were eating him. His smile ever present. He tried his hardest to be polite. There was a strange presence In his apartment that Autumn night. The cigarette burned; It would be his last one he decided. He felt like dirt, The fault of the colleagues he hated. He adjusted his tie, Combed his thinning middle-aged hair, Wiped his tired eyes And headed up the flight of stairs. The first step is the hardest; The first cut is the deepest; The last smoke is the foulest. He stops on the twelth step and looks around. Every direction is a long way down. Blackness behind him; Blackness in front. Everywhere is dark when you're hiding from hurt. The night is cold and beautiful. Peaceful. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't sob or sigh. He just walks to the edge; And falls.
0
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 1:20 PM UTC
Twelve
He lit up a cigarette. His worries and problems haunted him. He could never forget. His indescressions were eating him. His smile ever present. He tried his hardest to be polite. There was a strange presence In his apartment that Autumn night. The cigarette burned; It would be his last one he decided. He felt like dirt, The fault of the colleagues he hated. He adjusted his tie, Combed his thinning middle-aged hair, Wiped his tired eyes And headed up the flight of stairs. The first step is the hardest; The first cut is the deepest; The last smoke is the foulest. He stops on the twelth step and looks around. Every direction is a long way down. Blackness behind him; Blackness in front. Everywhere is dark when you're hiding from hurt. The night is cold and beautiful. Peaceful. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't sob or sigh. He just walks to the edge; And falls.
© 2009
Written by
iwan-lloyd-pitts
Welsh
Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 1:20 PM UTC
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