Short Story - Descent into Madness

Start to Finish

Life and Death. Start to Finish. You do not choose to be born, but you can choose when you die. 

"Why did this happen to me?"

It was a cold, lonely night. The stars were out, but it was hard to see them through the smog. He could hear the traffic buzzing about outside his cramped room. Thinking of all the people driving those cars and the lives that they lived, he started to feel sadness creeping up behind him. Maybe they had families, people that they loved, children, spouses- His body shook coldly. Setting down another bottle, (he didn't know how many he had gone through at this point,) but as Michael reached towards the next one, he remembered. Suddenly remembering his situation, he sprang from his bed and threw himself against the bars of the prison cell. Again and again, until the pain in his hands was too much to bare. Sobbing uncontrollably, he wondered "Why did this happen to me?" Why indeed. Faced with the possibility of never seeing her again, he cried himself to sleep that night.

As soon as the sun rose above the horizon, Michael (Mike for short) awoke. His friends always scrutinized him for how early he woke in the morning. Although his friends scrutinized him for being an early bird, they praised him for his clean-cut looks and behavior. He loved that they saw him as a great husband too. He loved it when someone praised him, in fact, he fed off of it. As much as he didn't want to admit it, it was true. Stepping out onto the porch, he inhaled the cold morning air. Clean Cleaner, and crisp, plus, there was almost no traffic this early. Slipping into his clothes, he took one quick look in the mirror. His blond, matted hair was slicked back in its usual fashion, and his suit was always pressed to perfection, and the creases were in the right places. Satisfied, he strolled downstairs past his wife's room. On second thought, he backtracked to his wife's room. Peeking into her room, he was relieved to see her sleeping. Her blond hair shimmered from the sliver of light passing through the window. He walked over to wake her, past her dresser, a mess of blonde and brown hairs- Suddenly, she awoke.

"Good morning. Hey, is anything wrong?" she asked curiously.

"Oh no, it's nothing. Why'd you ask?" he replied.

"You just looked shocked, that's all."

"Well, don't worry about."

"Good."

He left her room quickly, and although he told himself not to worry, he was worried. Although he tried to keep calm, he was not calm. The entire drive to work was torturous. He couldn't keep his mind off the subject. "Why was their brown hair on her dresser?" he thought. Considering all the possibilities, maybe the visit from Anne and Richard, or their babysitter, or maybe her mother dropped by. He kept thinking of possible explanations for the hair. Neither he or she had brown hair, and although some of the explanations were possible, one stood above the rest. One that he did not want to admit was happening. It couldn't be true. No way. Impossible. Unable to bear his stress, he asked if he could go home because he was sick. Obviously, he wasn't sick, but he was getting sick from the idea that his explanations could be correct, well, if one of them was correct. "I'll get this cleared up right away; I just have to ask her. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation." he thought while driving back home.

The door creaked open slightly. He stepped stealthily through the door, careful not to make any noise. One foot in front of the other, he walked past the kitchen. Messy, yet at the same time organized. He had cooked many meals for her. Many times he would schedule his time carefully so that when she got home, there was food ready on the table. And every time, she would smile. As he walked up the spiraling glass staircase, he began to regret his decision. With every step up the stairs, the heavier he felt. And at the top, he almost considered walking back down, but something told him to keep going. Looking down the hallway, her room sat on the other side. The hall seemed to be endlessly long, but when he reached the door, the weight he had felt had dissipated. Turning the doorknob confidently, he pushed open the door.

That was when he saw, them.

He could hear them her shouting at him. Maybe she was trying to explain, but no explanation could explain, that. Nothing. As he sprinted out onto the sidewalk, he saw that people were staring at him. He had not taken notice to his appearance. Sweaty, his nice hair now dirty and greasy, and his suit was partly ripped. And people were looking at HIM. They stared at him with disgust. All of them staring, staring at him. With their luxurious bags and designer clothes, intricate jewelry and their stuck up attitudes. Suddenly, she burst out of the front door.

"Michael! Wait it's not what it seems-" she started to explain.

Whatever she was saying, he didn't hear it. He wanted to hear the explanation, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. And the fact that SHE HAD THE AUDACITY TO TRY AND COVER UP WHAT JUST HAPPENED, he snapped. The next few words described exactly what he was feeling at the moment, anger. And he directed that anger at her by using very specific words. And he didn't regret it. It felt calming, almost. So he continued to hurl those words at her, and more and more people started to watch. He thought that he saw someone call 911, but honestly, he didn't care. Someone began to record him. Actually, multiple people started to record him. It wasn't that much longer when he could hear a siren in the distance. Thinking clearly and without any doubts, he ran out onto the street. Cars started to brake before him, and with that, he had caused a traffic jam. Observing his surroundings, he ran up to a car with a senior woman inside.

"I need to get away," he thought.

So he smashed the car's window. Unlocking the door from the inside, he dragged the woman out of the car and cast her to the street. Before anyone could stop him, he already had his foot on the pedal. Thinking that he had escaped, he turned to look behind himself. However, what he didn't see, was the concrete barrier ahead that was getting closer and closer and closer-

CRASH!

From the wreckage, hearing the sirens getting louder and louder, he tore himself from the seat. Though he was limping at this point, he still tried to escape. Practically dragging himself across the cement, he heard, "Hands behind your back! NOW!" Knowing that he could not let himself get caught, he looked around.

A shard of glass lie a few feet in front of him.

The police officer behind him was getting closer. That shard seemed tantalizingly close too. The police officer was now feet away. The shard of glass was just out of his reach, but he reached and, he grasped his hands around the glass. With a tight grip on the glass, he used every piece of strength in his body and stood up. Seeing this, the officer said, "Stand down! I repeat, stand down-" And with that, Michael plunged the shard of glass deep into his chest. Again and again, until- BANG! The police officer had shot him in his dying moments. Feeling the bullet wound in his chest, he started to feel faint.

"NO! NO! I'M NOT GETTING ARRESTED! NO, I'M NOT GOING TO JAIL!"

Seeing the gun in front of him, he did what he thought he had to do. Pressing it against his head, he pulled the trigger.

"Why did this happen to me?"