Final Cut

John just didn't care any more- the bottle was empty, his bank account even emptier, his heart emptier still. The razors glinted wickedly on the coffee table in the half-light thrown by the loose slats in the window blind, tempting as a thousand apples in a thousand Edens.1

He could imagine those dreadful little metal slivers sliding through his flesh- Hell, he didn't NEED to imagine them, they were already in his hand and already in his arm, cold steel shredding warm meat as easily as a knife through butter. Grimacing- but only a little, the whiskey had dulled all his senses to a dumb throbbing- he pulled the blades back and forth across his wrists until he grew bored, and then began dragging them up and down, swiftly turning the flesh there into a ragged crimson mess.2

It was curious, he found himself thinking, that a life so long-lived could be destroyed so quickly. Curious, but not important- no-one had really cared when he was alive, so why should they care now he was dying?3

There would be no note.4

There would be no salvation.5

There would just be blessed nothing.6

John closed his eyes, let the razors fall, and waited for the world to end.