PART ONE

There's a slight hum emenating from the center of a room.

A small room.

Not big on the 'having a window' aspect of things but it's a good little space.

There's a knocked over old-style television set in the corner, with 'rabbit ears' pointing to the floor.

Bottle of Jamesons turned on it's side, leaking it's precious contents all over the rug.

There's a marsh of pills atop a small table.

Blue ones, white ones, red ones, green ones... one might mistake them for Skittles.

Maybe the man in the room did by the looks of him.

Red eyes.

Knife in one hand.

Shotgun in the other.

Eyes begin to roll back into his head, only the whites visible as he unleashes an inhuman scream.

"ARGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!'"

At that he begins tu cut across his own face, slicing deeply.

No screams there.

We're privy to his thoughts.

---

Pitiful.

Castrated.

Weak.

Old.

Burned Out.

Diseased.

Idiotic.

Disgrace.

Not fit to wear a pair of boots.

No mind.

No mind at all.

No heart.

No talent.

No escape.

No return.

Banished.

By self.

Exiled.

No energy.



It seems the man wants to match up his reality with his thinking.

So he grabs the shotgun.

Puts it to his chin.

Pulls the trigger.