He had finally had enough. He walked through the brisk night air to the tree just outside of his neighborhood, and pulled the razor wire from the top branch. He expertly fastened a noose and slung it around the branch of the tree. He pinned the note to his shirt, and slit the fragile whiteskon on his scarre wrists. He pulled the loop over his head, kicked the stool, and Forrest Elmquist died that night. Almost...
