Weeping Angels

Part 1: The Thoughts of a Melancholy Young Man.

This story is dedicated to those friends of mine that I have lost to their inner demons, to their personal transgressions, to their own hand. May you all find the peace in the next world that you could not find in this one.

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A cold breeze blew through the city, tossing fallen leaves fitfully and rustling those not yet fallen. In the park, a single figure walked slowly, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his brown trench coat. His gaze peered downward at the paved path of which he slowly sauntered. His eyes were full of thought, and for Kettu Kinson, thought proved to be a dangerous thing.

Loneliness, emptiness, and the search for meaning had him obsessed for the last few years, his very being consumed with the need to find direction, but his soul torn apart by the question of where to look for it. He was dissatisfied by the living he was making as a musician, the lonely nights that came with it, and self hatred at his own hypocrisy. He portrayed himself as the hardcore rock star that his fans adored him for, and yet, it was all a facade. On the inside, Kettu was an emotionally fragile human being. A broken spirited individual who sought a different life, one where he felt fulfilled. But that seemed like an impossibility, a dream that evaded him in a veil of shadows. He continued down the path, his black leather boots crushing amber leaves as he walked slowly out of the park, he sighed, he had been walking for hours and still the same result, no inspiration, no answers, no perspective, and no chance of escape from this painful life. He walked on, going home.

He climbed the stairs outside of his apartment building and dug his keys out of his jacket, they jingled lightly as he sifted through them, seeking out the key for the front door. Upon finding it, he slipped it in the lock and turned, stepping inside.

Inside, the lights were flickering, bathing the empty first floor in a dusky light. They sent the shadows of supporting pillars creeping across the vast, empty space. This was an occurrence that was as often as it was irritating. Kettu walked across the concrete floor, his boot falls echoing eerily through throughout the area. At the opposite end of the room was the elevator, an old style, wooden grate caged the front of the metal platform. Kettu had been wary of getting on the aging relic since he moved in, fearing it would collapse beneath him, but since there weren’t any stairs in here, he didn’t have much of a choice. He reached forward, lifting the wooden grate up and stepping onto the metal platform, his boots clanking against the metal cage. He turned around, drawing the grate to a close and pressing a dirt-covered button for his floor.

The elevator churned to life, creaking and groaning as it began its ascent.

Home for Kettu was a small loft apartment with dirt stained windows that basked the interior of his home with a twilight like glow that dimly reflected off of his hardwood floors. Band posters hung from the walls in crooked order. It was dirty, dingy, and hardly worthy of human living, but it was all the young man could afford. Kettu stepped in, tossing his coat onto a chair and stepped into his living room, or what could be considered one. An aging futon with pushed in cushions sat against the one wall, an older television that no longer worked on the opposite end, and a writing desk on the same wall. Beside the futon was his guitar, a sunburst coloured Les Paul, and his practice amplifier, and a stained cedar end table, on it was an antiquated answering machine, it’s stainless steel starting to rust with age. A red light was blinking on it, signalling that he had a message. He pressed the play button.

“Hey, Kettu, man. It’s Phil. Listen, we got a gig for this Friday at the la pluie lounge on the north side. Jack wants us to meet together at his place and jam at six tonight to get ready, and he wants to use that killer closer that you’ve been writing. See you then, Big K, Ciao.”

Great, a gig this Friday, It meant that rent would be paid once again, but that was pretty much it. He walked over to the desk, where the killer closer that Phil had talked about was sitting in wait. The lyrics were done, but the music still needed some work. Kettu sat down at the desk, in front of him a wrinkled piece of loose leaf paper with that killer closer that Phil had spoken about scrawled in black pen.

My Goodbye.

By Kettu “ Big K” Kinson.

In the December of my discontent,

No one knows of my intent,

My heart is empty, my soul is dead,

And this is where it all must end.

The tears of all the years gone by,

No one knows.

The hope that someday soon I’ll die,

No one knows.

The life I live is going nowhere,

And no one knows.

So this is my Goodbye,

Do not cry for me,

As the days go by,

It’s better to forget me.

So here I am,

Heart in hand,

Saying my goodbye.

A razor’s edge, I walk alone,

Nowhere I’ve ever been is home,

So I am damned to always roam,

Walking forever, as a man alone.

The tears of all the years gone by,

No one knows.

The hope that someday soon I’ll die,

No one knows.

The life I live is going nowhere,

And no one knows.

So this is my Goodbye,

Do not cry for me,

As the days go by,

It’s better to forget me.

So here I am,

Heart in hand,

Saying my goodbye.

This is it, life’s final curtain,

You will never see my face again.

You will never see my face again.

By my hand alone, I am slain.

So this is my Goodbye,

Do not cry for me,

As the days go by,

It’s better to forget me.

So here I am,

Heart in hand,

Saying my goodbye.

He sighed. It wasn’t a killer closer, it wasn‘t a song at all. It was his innermost thoughts put into seemingly innocent prose.

No one knew, but Kettu first wrote it as his suicide letter.