I am not doing so well... The pain is back again. I cannot do this anymore. I cannot breathe.

It's insufferable.

I'd always tell myself that it could always get worse. That so many people indeed suffer worse and survive, with a big smile on their lips. Why can't I do that? Why is the pain inside my chest getting stronger? It hurts...

Tap your foot once. The worst part of everything is that I can't do anything about it. I've tried talking about it, I've tried distracting myself, drink it away, smoke it away, carve it away. But no... Nothing works. It may seem that it goes away for a moment before it strikes back again. Stronger. Way, way stronger than it was before.

I cannot handle this anymore. I know, I know. I've always wished for people to just not give a fuck about me. I've always wished I could just disappear into thin air. You should always be careful of what you're wishing for. I know, I know. I wish I could've thought this earlier. I wish my stupid, idiotic, moronic, detestable self, had just accepted people and kept them close. Or I wish... I wish I'd never met those people I actually care for. No. No, I cannot wish for that. I don't want my memories to disappear. I don't want them to disappear. After all, they are my only treasures.

You said this would help, but it still hurts... You said that if I write down my thoughts, the pain would go away. You said I would be free. LIES. I'm still under extremely heavy pressure. My eyes still burn like the ends of my cigarettes. My hands still tremble from trying not to rip them apart into pieces. Everything is wrong. Everything is misplaced.

And it hurts...

I don't mind you calling me whatever you will, I've told you before. Mr Dickhead still calls me his patient. My parents probably still call me a lunatic. My 'friends' have started to avoid me.

I am aware of everything. And it still hurts. My brain still calls out to me.

.

.You.

.Need.

.To.

.Die.

.

I keep on staring at the clock on the wall. Ten past eleven. Tap your foot twice.

Why do I even care? Does it even matter? In a little while, everything will be over. In a little while, everything will cease to exist for me and I will cease to exist for them. I don't know why I felt the need to talk to you before I give an end to this farce. A play in the theatre of the absurd, without any meaning for anyone but the writer himself. Everything will be over.

All the preparations have been made.

The rope is ready. I found out how to make the noose. I hope it will take my weight. Cheap rope, old lamp. Still, I was surprised to find out how easy it was to learn how to make it. Of course it was. Its usefulness is tremendous. Apart from hanging a body. They did have a warning, though.

  "It's not a joke". 

Of course it isn't. Even though it is funny. Such a valuable knot, making life easier and you, the miserable human being, use it to cease your life for once and for all. It will be used for a purpose, though. Its existence will have meaning.

Even if it's going to be used just once.

I want to destroy myself. I want to destroy everything that resides inside me. My lungs, my stomach, my guts, my spline. I will drink and I will smoke and I will swallow every last pill from my drawer until I can no more. I want whatever's left of my human self to be discarded like garbage. It suits me right. I want to be dead both physically and mentally. I want to disappear. Completely. I don't want to go to heaven. I don't want to go to hell. I just want my mind to stop working. My soul to be erased for good. Is this possible? Do you know, Nicholas?

It won't make much of a difference anyway! I was always a nothing, a nobody, a tiny, infinitesimal comb in the gigantic cosmic carpet. Wherever I'd be, I'd come and go like a shadow, without any trace, without being noticed, as if I was never there. Maybe it was my mistake. That is probably true. I may be young, but it's too late to make amends. It's too late to do anything. I've lost every will for salvation. I have nothing to succeed in.

I have lost everything.

I've almost run out of wine, Nicholas. It was your fault, you drank as well. Hush, hush, you don't have to pretend. Weeping for my... 'innocent soul' won't make a difference, you know that. Rejoice with me. My vision is blurry. I think the room can't handle any more smoke. It smells terrible. Good. But I'm sober enough to know what I'm doing and what I want to do. I was prepared for this. Isn't it sad? To prepare one's suicide?

Tap your feet thrice.

.

.You.

.have.

.forsaken.

.me.

.

You'll grow up to become exactly like him.

You may think I'm selfish. I'll give you that, Nicholas. You may believe that I don't think about the ones I leave behind. But believe me when I say that: no one, literally no one, cares! Ha ha! I've been abandoned by everyone! I've been in this godforsaken pit for a week now and no calls, no knocks on the door, no nothing! Isn't it funny? Laugh with me, Nicholas. Rejoice. The only ones that remembered me are the ones in charge of my bills. I have none since yesterday. No water, no electricity, nothing. That is why I'm standing next to a candle, writing on a rotten piece of paper.

You will tell me 'Hogan, it's your goddamned fault for not caring enough'. Silly, sillysillysillysilly. That's what you are, Nicholas. SILLY. It's because I've cared too much, that's what destroyed me. More than what the rules tell you to. I've broken the 'caring rules', Nicholas. Rejoice. It seems it is forbidden by the rules of our so-called society to love people and to trust them so easily. I let myself get lost and fell off a cliff, Nicholas. I broke the rules. And they broke me back. Rejoice. You can never tell me that I didn't try enough.

Gosh, won't you look at that? I'm left with a single cigarette. Time always flies by so fast when we talk, Nicholas. I've tried to wash away every single emotion I had within, but the tears are so persistent. Save me, Nicholas. You're running out of time. Where are you?

Why, does it matter anymore?

Everything is set. I will now say my goodbyes. I've got the chair, I've got the rope. I've saved our little chats and this is the last piece of paper. If you reading this and there's nothing more, it means I've committed suicide successfully. Wipe your tears, Nicholas, 'Boys don't cry'. Let's laugh it out, shall we? Rejoice.

Tell them if they ask. I was hanged, drunk but with full conscience of my actions. My body would stink of smoke and decay from miles away.

Rejoice, Nicholas.

Rejoice!