The sun beat down and crept through george’s window.
The light painted heavy shadows on his bedroom wall.
He woke with a heavy sigh and shot a glance to the pistol on his nightstand.
What he knew was that he was going to kill himself. It was a question of when and where.
With this he was at peace and felt contented.
No more would he wake up to sobbing motors of cars, and the soft whimper of the mind numbing night before.
And he wouldn’t have to walk the long narrow hallway that points him towards the stairs that carry him to the front door and out.
Every member of his family had died or was fixing to die in far away houses.
They were all alone. They never spoke.
George’s job was killing him.
It was killing him faster and with more conviction than any one of the bullets in his pistol would allow.
It was his fate at birth to die.
The job, and the useless quality of its nature:
He wakes at five.
He makes a small breakfast of eggs and toast, taking good time to pop and drain yokes.
He rides his bike to the edge of town to a small wooden kiosk with the words fadedly emblazoned,
“WELCOME TO WINDERMERE CREEK, A PLACE OF PEACEFUL LIVING”
He would sit and smoke cigarettes,
making note of every entry or exit of any persons.
And in fifteen years of holding the job,
George had just began to realize that every designated box on every designated sheet of paper had gone unmarked.
Bone white and dead empty.
What does he do on these pale mornings?
New sun beat down and crept through George’s window.
He shot a glance to the pistol on his nightstand.
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