Thursday

I look over the small abyss that is my balcony, a tempting voice screaming malcontent into my thoughts. In what case would they mourn you? its sharp pictures seemed to coax. Images of my lucid skinned body, floating in the water stuck behind my eyes. I imagined the people of the park finding my drowned body the next morning, my black eyes the only color left to be found on me, my skin decomposing in the waxy way it seems to with the drowned body's of the sailors that wash up to shore on occasion, though the police claim them nothing more than seals, brought in by the undertow. I look over the tower. Encased in lights the size of small buttons, its flickering aura seems to cast an almost living glow over this decrepit ruin of what was said to be the most glorious of city's. As I leave my small apartment I set my destination in my head, blocking out the incessant scream of disease that has claimed my mind since I was small. The scares on my face and neck show my countless attempts to rid myself of this infectious depression. I run my hand over the deepest mark, and indent over where my voice would reside, and miss the feeling of being able to speak. A cool branch whips my face as I walk by it and I can feel the blood leak from my temple down to my hand that rests on my collar bone. The warmth on my hands gives me extra life to simply complete this last task before I can sleep. In a moment of frozen insparation I smear the dark blood over my hands and neck. The slight thaw it gives my damaged skin is relief enough to take the last steps twords the tower. I pull myself up and begin to climb the stairs. Up and up. Bitter wind follows me as I climb until I reach the top with nothing but my voice to keep me company in the dark of this night. I walk to the eadge of this city's most cherished posetion, and take my final breath as I leap from the top. They found my body in the morning, at the feet of La Tour Eiffel.