Happy at Last

He couldn't have died a more un-happy man. As he was hanging from the ceiling, his neck, cut and bloodied from the rope which was looped around his neck, he looked at peace with himself. As though he had finally done something right for a change. His face was pale, and his brown eyes where wide open, and the pain was visible through his eyes, and the suffering was still as present as it ever was. His hair was knotted and messy, but he was dead, he could do nothing about it now. His feet hung lifelessly and his arms were limp by his side, they were now worthless like the rest of his body, with his hands, cold and ashen. He hung silently and still from the office ceiling. It was all quiet and dead, like him. Papers were flung around the office floor, with the kicked over chair in the midst of all the mess. The one he had stood on and then kicked away from under him, his old faithful chair which he had had for years, had done him the biggest favour, it had killed him. One chair, had given him all he had ever wanted, fulfilled his only ever dream, to die. But really, he didn't want to die, to be given recognition, for people to acknowledge that he had once existed. So really, this man didn't kill him self at all, we did. Every single person who ever saw him and pretended he wasn't there. His murderers were the ones who ignored him and wouldn't spare him the time of day. He did not kill himself at all. This society did.