Four Choices

He slide the bolt into place and sat on his bed at the foot of the window. Sitting within an old hotel on the 14th floor he pondered the logistics of his death. He had decided that to be safe he would consider all options. On top of the sink there was a knife, a gun, and a rope. The window was also open. 4 possible deaths but one possible action. Looking out the window he saw that there was a ledge that spanned 3 feet out from the window. It was a comfortable climb down and was easily visible to all from below. It was night time. Considering all his options the ledge was the ultimate decision. Slowly he looked out the window and considered the fall. A slight bout of vertigo sent a shiver down his spine. He lifted one leg over the sill followed by the other. Sitting on the sill he slide down unto the ledge and stood erect. The wind was light and the city shone delicately, almost serenely. 

A few minutes passed without incident. He sat on the ledge swinging his legs watching the people walking below. He found it odd that in the darkness no one looked up. He sat dangerously close to the edge of an outcropping and no one sensed the danger, no one felt his pain despite their seemingly close proximity. He was completely alone. He wanted to die more than ever. Looking down it seemed so simple. Just let go. All he had to do was relax his back muscles and he would slide from the ledge and hit the ground with enough force to kill him. Easy. 

A few minutes passed. He looked over the edge and felt from the pit of his stomach the fear of life. He knew it was the right choice. He accepted that life for him was meaningless, painful, and unrequited. He reminded himself the simplicity of the act. Just let go. In his hand he held a letter. It was to no one in particular, just a jumble of confused and un-profound words. Some where big words while others where small. Some built big concepts while others built small concepts. It didn't really matter what he wrote only that he wrote it. He wrote it for no one. That was the meaning behind it all. It was a self referential act. The writing was for himself. He truly didn't care who would read it or why only that it would be read and thrown readily in the pile of other such letters collecting dust in an evidence locker before getting destroyed. He was another open and shut case. 

A few more minutes passed. One person looked up and shrugged, completely apathetic and uncaring. He felt oddly slighted. Even in possible death he was utterly invisible and unimportant. Death and life mirrored each other. It didn't matter wether he was a corpse or a living and breathing organism, he was utterly worthless and unimportant. No one cared. It was obvious. He wept. It was silent and unsurprisingly pathetic in nature. The sobs where unappealing and the mucus that ran down his nose and face made him appear even more pitiful. He was a creature of unhindered sadness caught in a cycle of self-hatred and pity. He knew there was only one thing to do. He climbed from the ledge back into the hotel. 

A few more minutes passed. The rope, knife, and gun where still near the sink, unmoved. He was asleep in his bed taking solace in his unconsciousness which granted him a reprieve from his unapologetically miserable life. He possessed a peace in sleep that was almost beautiful. A slight smile cracked his lips as he rolled over in his bed and moved the pillow closer to his body. The evening was a peaceful one.