By: Arthur Salinas

The day was rare. It was not often Texas became cold in the autumn. The Presidential Election was over, marching season had ended, and concert season had begun. He lay on the carpet, motionless and silent as he did most days after school in his usual practice room. He always picked up his dinner from his mother, ate, and just lied in thought, wonder, and awe.

His arms were tattooed with scars left by his own doings. His fingers were blood stained and arm sliced, yet he had no cry, no call for help, and no care for what he had done. He hadn't a care in the world, and his mindset had led him to believe that no one in the world had cared for him.

Mike was tall, blonde, almost stocky, and very smart. His friends were intelligent, but Mike excelled in all classes. There was not a class that was lower than an A- . He had very good friends and a very trustworthy best friend, but still he felt alone inside. No one was sure why he had been so depressed. He had only recently told his 2 closest friends what he does in private, though one of them had to find out on his own and he had never said why he does this.

"Mike, Mike get up!" Vincent was a very tall and lanky fellow. Vincent had walked in on Mike many times. The first time Vincent had walked in on him Mike had thought he would leave and never talk to him again. But this boy was his best friend and he had done the exact opposite. Instead of walking out on him he had gone and held him, instead of never talking to him again he comforted him. Mike and Vincent were quite a pair. Vincent was one of two people who knew that Mike sliced his own arm. The only other person who knew was Tom, but he wasn't nearly as close to Mike as Vincent was. Vincent and Mike kept no secrets from each other.

"Let's go Mike!" he commanded. But Mike just lied there.

"Useless, meaningless, completely," Mike murmured woodenly.

"What's the matter, the demons get to you?" Vincent asked whimsically. Mike just stared at him with menace in his eyes.

"Sorry," he quickly retaliated, "just a joke. Trying to brighten the mood," he explained. Mike turned away, he was in no mood for humor.

"C'mon Mike, you can't live like this forever,"

"You're right," Mike said, "I can't," he lifted up his pocket knife and stared at it.

"What are we doing here, Vince?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why do we live here, on this earth, why do we strive for greatness, but soon get conquered by our own death? It was never my choice to be conceived, nor my choice to die, yet I know, as we all know, death is waiting, laughing at us as we live our life and try to meet our goals, and just as we reach them, BAM! Death slaps us in the face, mortality meets reality, and all that work, all those years are flushed down the toilet,"

Vincent was shocked. He pondered that statement, and then soon answered.

"Don't you think our life was meant to be enjoyed? To strive and meet our goals at some point. When we fail, we are able to learn from our mistakes and teach others of how to succeed in such a situation!"

"Less and less would I like to live on this cruel planet earth. I shall never meet my goals or fulfill my dreams. If I am going to live only to die, why wait 80 years for that day. We might as well finish it all now,"

"You know, you are pretty right, but still just wait it out. Maybe it'll get better," Vincent explained.

"Okay, I'll wait it out, I'll see if it gets better,"

"Good, let's go!"

It had just been 2 days after Mike's suicide. His body was found in his bathtub. He lied nude in a pool of water with crimson clouds floating throughout. His jugular vein had been slashed with blade in hand. On the counter stood a neatly folded note that read, "This is what you've driven me to! Thank you America, thank you Earth, and thank you life!"

His parents were mortified, family in tears, but Vincent was hit the hardest. He fell into a deep depression and never left his room. He wrote on his walls, "Death is my salvation! Life is fast! Death is faster!" It wasn't long until they found him. January 6th, 2013, Vincent's birthday. He was found in his back yard along with a bottle of cyanide. In his hand a musical manuscript entitled "Mike-Vincent Requiem," this was what he had been doing in his room. No suicide note was found until a week later when his parents finally looked through his room. On his bed was a single strip of paper. All that read was "Mike was right!"