He is alone.
All around him, the gray, dark walls of his room stand tall. No light comes from the cracked TV screen nor the ages-old lamp sitting by his bedside. He is a wreck - his hair is missing, lost from stress. His glasses are broken; they lay on the ground, unused. He doesn't need them. He doesn't go outside. He just sits and waits for the last moments of his miserable life.
Months ago, the electricity was shut off, for he had run out of money to spend, wasted on worthless knick-knacks, things bought to bury the pain, the horrible depression that had set in.
His whole life, he had done nothing, coddled by his parents. Now they are gone, and they took his will to live with them. Even his pets are dead - long dead, in fact. He is completely and totally alone. He will be for the remainder of his miserable life.
It doesn't have to end here. It really doesn't. He has no real adversities except himself, and his inability to change. The only thing that is different now is how much he lost. It was a rude awakening - for his whole life he had done nothing but be rewarded for his laziness. He had never worked a day in his life.
Now he doesn't know whether or not it is day or night, as the windows of his room are boarded up. The only thing he knows is a numb, cold feeling. He has no purpose. His entire existence now is just a cycle of sleeping and eating when it is necessary. Even the pests that had once roamed the house have abandoned him. He is in oblivion, and completely aware of it. He is nothing more than a shade, and his house is Asphodel.
It is cold. Too cold. It feels as if the air around him is closing in, suffocating him in a coffin of nothingness. He needs to go. Needs to escape.
He stands up, limps over to the door of his house, and opens it. Outside, it is snowing, and the only lights are from the lampposts. Not a single car cruises down the street. Even outside there is nobody for him. There is only one thing for him to do: walk.
He has no idea where he is going; he operates on pure instinct, nothing more. He passes houses, churches, and old broken down shacks. He continues on, walking down the isolated road until he reaches the edge of town. He wanders off through the forest, the snow getting thicker, a layer of fog settling in. His breath comes in short breaths.
Finally, he breaks out of the trees and finds himself in front of an ice-covered lake. Through a hole in the clouds moonlight illuminates the ice, putting him in a trance-like state.
He follows the light. He steps out onto the lake, and walks towards the center. He needs to be under the moon, needs to see it one last time. The moon is the one thing that is always there. It won't die, or go away from him. It is almost in its own state of oblivion, out in space. He needs company. Any kind of company.
Then, there is a cracking sound, and he falls down into the watery deep. The cold water pierces him like daggers, but it is oddly comforting. He doesn't feel lonely anymore.
Now the only thing he wonders is what he will die from: drowning, or hypothermia?
