I didn't notice until I was well into my thirties just how little I had aged. Still, ageing isn't much, and as my forties rapidly approached I found myself actually celebrating the absence of those regular milestones of life. All those little markers that signal the slow wilting of a human being: crow's feet pulling at my eyes, a receding hairline; the belly, a result of me enjoying myself just a little too much and a little too often, these were things that happened to other people.

Then, I put the gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger. When I finally came to my senses I was confused, but some quick probing put any doubts to rest. There was a hole. A huge, ragged maw in the back of my head, squishy and slick with blood. My blood. I should have died that day, my depression should've put an end to my miserable life, but it didn't. So I did what any dedicated person would do. I tried again. When I finally came to, hanging from a rope above my blue glass dining table, I figured I would have to try harder. So I took a page from every stereotype in the suicide bible. Pills gave me a good night's sleep. Poisoning felt as though I'd woken up from the biggest hangover in my life, and I'd seen some big ones. What followed was quite possibly the most complete set of failures in my entire life, each futile attempt adding another scar or oddity to my body.

By the time I had finally gotten to the top of one of my cities taller buildings, my skin had turned a kaleidoscope of sickly colors and the body I'd once taken such pride in had been beaten and slashed to ribbons. Through the aching pain I pushed myself, finally reaching a height from which I could finally put an end to the travesty my existence had become. As I rushed to the ground, my last thoughts thoughts were of the pain, unending and intense, pounding against every bone in my body. Then, I woke.