Fast food wrappers and bags mark the floors and tables. The blinds are always closed, they don’t even need dusting. Too many unread books on the bookshelf, as if belonging to someone in a previous life. Unfolded clothes on the coffee table. An open condom wrapper poking out from underneath the couch. It may have been expired when used.

A dying man in a living room.

Words and footsteps can sometimes be heard from beyond the door; “I hope they don’t hear me, I hope they don’t know I’m here.” They see me sometimes when I go out for a smoke. They must be tired of hearing my footsteps. I don’t have the right to exist. I can’t get the smell of nicotine off my fingers. I wash my hands but its still there. Anything white is stained yellow. My teeth must be rotting.

A dying man in a living room.

Death should be romantic, depression is pretty in the movies. But no, I’m a dying man in a living room, hidden from the rest of the world. How many others are hidden with me? Anonymous and unknown, waiting to escape a world that was cruel, a world that made no place for them.

Dying men in living rooms.

Chat rooms and porn. Pirated films and YouTube clips. Anything to pass the day.

Just a dying man in a living room.

Pentobarbital is the holy grail for the suicidal. I think if I travelled I could get some. Or maybe if I volunteered at an animal shelter, they must do a lot of euthanizing there. Sodium nitrate can kill you, but it seems to take too long and too much of a process. If I can’t get pentobarbital, its my old friend helium.

Another day.

A dying man in a living room.