The Will To Survive

Why was he sweating so much? Perhaps the air conditioner had stopped working and he hadn't noticed the absence of the previous jet of cool air brushing his hair. Was that his mother he just heard? No, it couldn't be. She said she would be out for the afternoon, through the evening. That is why he had chosen that particular day. Was the writing legible enough for others to read? He couldn't say, especially when his right hand was trembling just so. The vibrations of the nib of the pen were changing all his D's to P's and his V's to Y's. He hoped it would be legible, since it would be very important that everybody understood. Would they understand, he wondered? It didn't matter, as he was right in his mind and nothing or nobody could stop him now. He had made up his mind and he would go through with it. Was he right in doing what he was doing? Not just to himself, but to everyone around him, to everyone that mattered even fleetingly. His mind was agitated again, just as it had been for the past three weeks.

Suddenly, the bell rang. Who could it be? Whoever it was, it had to wait. He reconsidered. What if they broke in, at constant ignorance of the doorbell? He had to see who it was. He shoved the sheet of paper under the tablemat quickly, pushed back his chair and headed for the door. A corner of the paper, however, was left jutting out unknowingly. It read -

"..really sorry,

...hope you forgive me."