A normal night as many would call it. Average, in the television’s quiet murmurs, or the organized chaos of this home decor. No brand-names. Moving boxes remain unpacked across the floor, yet show frequent activity. Dishes, normally a chore by definition, would be called a ‘chore’ by anyone viewing the stacks dormant in this home.

The man sits in his chair, unbothered.

The sounds from the television go silent.

He sits alone with his thoughts.

His index and middle-finger extend, forming his hand into the shape of a gun. He bites his fingertips, the barrel of the gun in his own mouth. It wouldn’t be the first time suicidal thoughts have been in his mind. The silence around him becoming so painfully loud he wished anyone would break it. Everyone lives with dark-thoughts, yet, when he focused on this moment, this time it felt real.

Not real in the sense of he’s taking his life. Real because for the first time he could completely and vividly imagine the way in which his life would end.