The feeling that something is watching me is still looming over my head. Like a terrifying omen of the darkness that is to come. Something's on the table. I know it. I saw it move behind me in a reflection on the surface of a freshly cleaned spoon. My hands are shaking. I turn around. "Oh... It's just you, Mickey. Just my cat. Just good old Mickey." I turn around and wash one more plate before I realize it. Mickey... He's been gone since this spring. Then what's on my...

Terror grabs me by the throat. I can't breathe. Panic is taking over. I turn around. The last thing I see are those eyes. Those red eyes. And the teeth. The incredibly long teeth. Was that even a cat?

I stood up from my computer. Another few lines written. My body screams at me to stretch, but I'm too damn lazy to do even that, so I leave my muscles stiff. Not like it would matter now, anyway. The last chapter is finished, and so am I. My commissioned concept art lay on the table, the latest print of my comic book beside them. Everything is finished. I always hated leaving things open, so I made sure to tie all the knots before I go. Not like there would be anyone who'd bother themselves by reading it. At least I know I didn't leave any stories and plots still unresolved.

My body finally stands up from the comfortable seat in my office. I feel like a puppet on strings. My knees pop and creak as my legs finally straighten. I move forward and walk past the bookshelf. It is filled to the brim with my own creations. Novels, novelettes, comics, and so much more. I've written so much. How long has it been now, I wonder? Twelve years? Fifteen? It's hard to remind myself, yet something compels me to do so anyway. My legs carry me toward the big glass display case sitting in the corner of the room, close to the entrance to my office. I see it sitting on a small pedestal. My magnum opus. The work of art that started it all. My incredible journey. The biggest waste of my life. All the trophies that I put around it make it look like a tiny shrine. Back in high school, I wrote this simply to express myself. For four years, until my graduation, I've been writing and re-writing, fiddling with the characters until I'd consider them perfect. Then I published my work, simply to think I had done something with my life. And all those prizes just fell on my head. Nominated for all sorts of prestigious awards. I've even won quite a few of them. Adapted into a rather shitty movie. This book went places and I followed along. It made me money to buy the office where I stood right now. My own corner of the world where I could create in absolute peace.

But not everything was great. As I gently stroke the glass between me and my beloved first child, I think about what came after. They kept asking me if I'd write some more, and drunk on all that money and fame, of course, I've done so. My next book was done in just four months. That's how much I loved making it. My days were filled with nothing but words typed away at a keyboard. But this was not to be the prodigal son. The book was mediocre. Those literary critics that expected another masterpiece tore it to shreds. Only the most rabid fans liked what I wrote. But of course, I couldn't just give up. I kept on writing. Another mediocre rating? Nevermind. Just make another book. Not successful? Change the genre. Change the format. Change anything. How many have I written? I can't even remember. How many have lived up past the mediocre reviews? None. For twelve years, I've kept chasing success that simply wouldn't come anymore.

I bid my precious trophies farewell and focus on my list. Knives were messy and way too painful. I'd feel bad for the person who’d have to clean up after me. Guns were too loud and I’d have to be careful of collateral damage- the bullets would go through walls here.

Pills…

I shivered at the thought of accidentally surviving an overdose of pills. Besides, they weren’t an aesthetic way to go either. I look into the little medicine cabinet in my office. Only some laxatives. "Unless I want to die by shitting myself to death, that’s not a very good idea," I mutter. I sigh and go back to the main room. It's so late now. The cars outside barely make any noise. Each breath I take fills the whole room with an echo. It's so quiet.

"My wife will understand. She will. She'll do fine without me- even better than now." I repeat those lies to myself over and over again. It's the only way I can cover up the one thing in my life that could bring me back from the brink tonight. I thought back on the rest of the list.

Other drivers would just feel as if my blood is on their hands… they don’t deserve to suffer as I do. Just because I wasted my whole life. Fire was… aesthetic. And my work would burn down with it. Poetic. But far, far too painful. One of the worst ways to go.

I look at the numerous literary works displayed around the room. "You were all a waste of space anyway."

I pack everything in my office into a large plastic bag. In it are all my novels, all the collections of my comic books, and all of my drawings. "I’ll burn it all today. But not here. No. I don't want to set fire to the whole building." I thought about the final item on my list - falling.

An idea comes to my mind. "The roof! I'll burn it there. One quick call to the fire station, and then just a simple leap down. Fast, clean, and a classic." Even in my final moments, I still had that weak aesthetic voice inside me telling me that even my death had to be somehow pretty.

With a clear goal set in my mind, I grab the filled plastic bag, lock the office after myself, and head up the stairs. "The simple solutions are always the best ones. Embrace simplicity. I always told this to those young talents that needed inspiration. All those enthusiastic writers at the conventions who'd always ask me the same thing every year: "What tips do you have for beginner writers?" I wish I could just tell them the truth. I wish I could just say: "You need luck. A gallon of pure, fucking luck. Don't have that? Might as well give up now and save yourself the pain." But no. I can't say that. That would be inappropriate. So, I just feed them the lie: "Embrace simplicity."

"So practice what you preach for once Eddie, embrace simplicity." I talk to myself all the way up. They say talking to yourself means that you're insane. I indeed was that night. But what did it matter? It was my last day on Earth. I was free to do whatever I wanted. Who cares if I sounded insane? Pretty sure my mind wasn't healthy, given what I was about to do.

I finally reached the top. The sky was so beautiful. No clouds, just bright stars and the moon wishing me a farewell. No strong wind either. Just a calm breeze whistling my requiem. It was perfect. I throw all of the stuff out of the plastic back and onto the floor. The match in my hand makes the satisfying "krsh" when I light it and drop it onto the pile. It was mostly just papers, so it caught fire with little effort. "Well, that would be done," I think. My works have finally served their true purpose - practice for the firemen.

I walk to the edge, holding my phone firmly, illuminating the darkness around me with the flashlight. I check my goodbye letter. It's still in the front pocket of my shirt. Good. I had a lot to say but no time or strength to say it. "God, I'm worthless," I say to myself. Hopefully, it'll get to other people this way at least. They'll know what I felt and that it wasn't their fault. I look down. No cars parked under the building. "Great. At least my fall won't destroy someone's expensive property."

With that in mind, I climb onto the edge and call the firefighters.

"Hi... um... There's a fire on the roof on Moon Street 428.

...

No, I can't extinguish it.

...

No, it's not big, but it could be. Sorry, but I can't help you.

...

Why? Because by the time you'll get here, I'll be, uhh... dead."

I hang up. Those were my last words. Funny, I wrote many last words in my life for all kinds of creations. Most of them were thoughtful, sad, or even heroic. But in my own last moments, I couldn't bring myself to say anything better. Guess that's the difference between fiction and reality.

I feel numb. I'm moving automatically, as if possessed. I drop my phone and lean over the edge. Gravity does its job, as always. The light tumbles down until I hear a distant crack, and then darkness. If I knew this was going to be so... strange, I'd probably have written something about it.

I didn’t realize I had walked over the edge until after I had started falling.

Death and I are old friends, my dear reader. Well, not yet. We will be. For you, it is a future. For me, it is my past. I regret my actions every day. But I can't take them back no matter how hard I'll try. For now, turn the page. But let me warn you. Once you reach the final pages, some of you might see my end as a beginning. A beginning of my part in something much, much, bigger than me. Let me tell you immediately - it wasn't worth it.