Tomorrow morning will bring my 40th birthday and likely the final day of my life. Not that it is any great loss. My wife left me three months ago and took our kids with her. I haven’t spoken to any of them in a few weeks and don’t expect that I will again.

My career isn’t fairing any better than my family life. I’ve wasted the last two decades as an accountant for a mid-sized grocery store chain. Our manager dumps unrelated tasks on me constantly. I spend more of my days stocking shelves and mopping up piss in the bathrooms than I do on any accounting work.

Regardless of all this I still maintain I have no desire to hurt myself.

So why do I think tomorrow will be my last day?

This afternoon I received a package in the mail. When I opened it the contents were wrapped in folds of rich blue silk and tied with a bow of white ribbon. I felt like vomiting when I realized what was inside.

I saw the same blue silk and white ribbon combination 23 years ago when my father received it in the mail. It was the first time I had seen him cry. When he was able to collect himself enough to tell me what was wrong he told me his father had received this same package when he was a young man.

My grandfather had used it to take his own life the following day.

Just like his father, my dad used it to the same end as well.

Something tells me that this package has found the men in my family for untold generations at the same low point. Now it has found me. Rightly or wrongly, I feel as though this heirloom knows when it is time for things to draw to a close.

I went into the bathroom and the brush of the silk in my hands is soothing and sickening at the same time. The shape and weight of the object wrapped inside have become hypnotic to me. My head aches and fills with thoughts of my wasted life and the family I’ve lost.

The tub is filled to the brim as I ease myself into the soothing waters. Its warmth eases the pain in my head a bit. My eyes drift to the heirloom perched on the pile of blue silk and white ribbon.

The antique straight razor sings to me.

All will be well soon.

Allow me to write your sorrows upon your flesh.

Close your eyes.

Your father is waiting.

Such a beautiful thought.

I’m glad I don’t have a son. Perhaps this heirloom will be passed down no longer.

Whatever has sent this thing on, your work is done.