The Author Kills Himself

“No!” he cried out. “Please!” He uttered.

But the voice on the other side said nothing. Instead the loud long screech happened again. Growing so loud the other ear popped with pain. Then there was nothing. Silence. And a calm fell over the author who couldn’t really write. He placed down his phone knowing the figure wouldn’t want him to hang up. He breathed deep that cool crisp air that was around him. Now realizing that he was fine and dandy and healthy and felt like that elephant on his chest had turned into nothing but a sense of fulfillment. The salty tears he tasted were no longer filled with sorrow but of contentment. 

He walked back into the bathroom and cleaned up the bloody tissues over the ground. Happy he couldn’t hear the banging on the door to his office. Happy he had locked it too. Happy about everything really. Happiness poured out of him from where he sliced his wrists, it wasn’t just blood. And as he laid there in his tub. Letting the warm liquid pool around him. He was happy that the phone would record his girlfriend's screams for his employer on the other side of the line. And was ecstatic that he would not hear anything anymore or stare at a blank screen that now said only two lines. 

The first was:

Once upon a time. 

And under it. With that flashing caret still behind the punctuation. Ever beaconing more creation greedily. The words:

The end.