He was sitting on the chair. A man in his early twenties, silently alone in a room that looked more like an interrogation room of the mind than a normal room.
Papers with crossed-out writings, hopeless sentences, dead ideas, and unanswered questions were stuck to the walls and doors. Some with tape, others with nails. Like secret confessions meant to be seen—but not read. Books were scattered all over the room, and the shelves were overflowing.
The room was dark, except for a yellow-orange light glowing from the desk lamp. That light, like a final candle in a storm, cast a weary shadow on the wall. His shadow—seated, still, and trembling.
His hand was shaking. Not from fear, but from something deeper. Something even he couldn't name. As if his body understood what was coming was the end—but his mind didn't.
The clock kept ticking—merciless and indifferent. Each tick, like an arrow to the heart of the night. Each tock, like a noose tightening around time's neck.
The small knife on the table—the one that always stayed in the kitchen drawer—was now out. Shiny, sharp, and dangerous. The desk lamp's light danced on its blade. Flickering and cold. Metallic, but alive.
Next to the knife, there was a note. Like the final post of his life. Just one word:
"Unworthy."
His thoughts were blurry and dark. Like thick winter fog settling over a city—suffocating. He couldn't separate one thought from another. He just knew they were all heavy, all painful.
His breath had grown slow and heavy. Audible, like the breath of a tired man. A loser.
He lifted his hand. Picked up the blade. But paused. Something, somewhere inside him said, "Wait." Not loud enough to stop him, but enough to delay.
He closed his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, a scene came alive.
The sound of blood dripping. Yes, it had sound. Like the drip of water from an old bathroom pipe. But this time… from his own body. The blade had cut the vein.
A sudden cold wrapped around his hand. Not the cold of air, but of within. As if the air had crept into his veins uninvited.
His eyes showed a hint of fear, but more than that, they were empty. Just staring at the ceiling. White, silent, indifferent. As if he were watching himself from outside.
"Is this the end I was looking for?"
His head felt lighter. A mild dizziness, like the world was slipping out from under him. His vision was slowly fading, but he was still conscious. Still able to think.
And what better to do in the last minutes of life than think?
The first thing that came to mind wasn't regret. Not someone's name. Not a goodbye letter. But an image...
A candle in a dark room.
His childhood. Maybe six or seven years old. His father, mother, and himself. The power had gone out, but their smiles lit the room. A birthday with a small cake and a blackout over the whole city.
That short moment appeared more vividly than anything else.
"That was happiness... but it's all gone. All wasted."
The dripping grew faster. The blood, like ink from a broken pen, made its way across the floor. Slowly, but surely.
He could no longer lift his hand. Muscles no longer obeyed. He just sat. The knife had slipped from his hand and now left a spreading stain on the small rug.
"Truth is, I don't know how I got to this point. Maybe I gave up on the world... maybe I hated myself... or maybe I was just too weak for all this pain."
Suddenly, anger. At himself? At others? At the world? He didn't know.
With his last bit of strength, he raised his trembling arm and shoved the table. Everything flew—books, papers, phone, cup, and desk lamp.
The lamp fell, but still glowed. Flickering, trembling, like a light refusing to die.
His dizziness worsened. He couldn't stand. He collapsed. The floor was hard. His head hit the wall's corner with force. The sound echoed in the room—sharp, metallic.
No one came. As if no one existed. There really was no one. Solitude was absolute.
"Ah... it hurts... my head's spinning…"
A faint smile appeared. Ridiculous. Even now, he was in pain.
His eyes fixed on the ceiling. The dying light flickered on the wall. Shadows tangled together.
His thoughts grew more chaotic. The blow to his head blurred the line between reality and illusion.
"This world has no process for growth. It's full of idiots. Everyone's just a copy. A bunch of different faces with the same empty thoughts. I didn't belong among them."
Then, silence.
Something changed in his face. A soft frown. His vision dimmed further, but he could still see the light. He was still breathing.
"They know nothing about morality, but speak of ethics. They know nothing of love, yet write romance novels. They preach freedom while trapped in bigger cages."
Silence returned. His body grew colder. Hands limp. Eyes dull.
"It's too late now... far too late. Even if I want to stop it now, I can't. All that's left is to wait. To be honest, I've always been curious about what happens after death. After all, this earth has written countless tales about it. And now, it's my turn to see the truth."
But even in this final moment, his mind wasn't empty of thought. A simple regret, small, childlike, foolish… but real.
"Dark chocolate... damn... I wish I had one before. Or a hot tea… what a good combo that would've been in this cold."
In the final moment, he didn't think of his family. Nor of friends, nor love. Just one simple, worthless, fleeting thing. A reason for the absurdity of his end. Or maybe a sign that life lives in its smallest details.
A faint smile touched his lips. Bitter. Like the chocolate he never ate.
And then, with a heavy blink, he closed his eyes.
But…
Suddenly, the space shifted…
As if he had been thrown into another world....