That was the note he left. A sticky note, actually. Pushed hard and pressed purposefully onto the upper-left corner of the corkboard in his home office, now spattered with brain matter and blood.
He woke that Tuesday, poured his coffee, sat on his back porch, and listened to mourning doves coo and the distant rumble of the early commute – trucks and cars, potholes and puddles. The wet hum and rattle of life.
He would miss his morning coffee, but not enough to stick around.
His kids were grown. As best he could, he’d advised them about life and how to get on in the world. So, in this regard, his “main” job was done.
He wasn’t all that unhappy or in any kind of pain, just immensely bored and intensely uninterested in the grind and pursuit, of what, he never entirely understood.
For the last several weeks, he found himself muttering, “What’s the point? Nothing changes. It’s all the same shit.”
What’s the point?
It’s all the same shit.
I suppose if one chews on those sentiments long enough, a sticky note on a corkboard and a gun in your mouth is where you end up.
He was missed dearly by his family, who stumbled numbly through life for the next two years.
For weeks after his demise, his faithful dog waited for him to come down the stairs and give a loving pat on the head. Whenever the house creaked, or the upstairs plumbing clanged, his dog would get up, walk to the stairs, and wait.
That was perhaps the saddest display of love and loyalty ever.