He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. The gun was empty, just like his life. There had to be something. A reason for waking up each morning. Other than coffee.
Something. Somewhere.
He mailed himself in a letter to tell his mother he loved her. He packed his low expectations in his backpack and boarded a bus to find that something. Or maybe find a better cup of coffee.
His mother called to deliver her resentments. No answer. Just an empty dial tone, echoing against the walls.
As she hung up the phone on the clothesline, she noticed his nothingness on top of the morning mail.
She opened the envelope and read the letter. It was too late. He was gone.
published in Garden of Neuro
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