Prologue: September 30th

Is this what they call poetic justice?

It's funny that, of all thoughts, this had to be the particular one to snake its way into my dimming mind. Actually, to be perfectly honest, it isn't funny at all. I guess some might call it heartbreaking, that a man's final thoughts concern this.

I don't even know how it came to this. I remember walking down the street…I think it's night? It's the last day of September, I know that much at least…

How long will it take someone to realize that I'm gone? I live – lived? – alone in my apartment – no roommates, no pets, not even a friendly neighbor to nod hello to. My family would never notice; my brother probably thinks I've been roaming the streets ever since he kicked me out, and I'm pretty certain my parents don't even know I ever moved in with him.

My friends…oh, what friends? Sure, I've had drinking buddies here and there, even a couple kind-of-acquaintances. I've known names and faces, and people have known my name or face – sometimes even both. But the last time I saw a friend, he was disappearing far into the distance without a single glance back.

And Emily?

Emily wouldn't notice.

That's kind of depressing, isn't it? I've never really thought about it before, to be honest. My entire life, it feels like I've been skating on the brim of reality, preferring cheerful ignorance to the harsh truth. I've never even felt lonely – no, scratch that. Everyone feels lonely at some point in their lives. But I've never felt all alone. Abandoned. Forsaken. Like a withered leaf in the autumn.

At least, not like I do now.

Even in my darkest hours, I've still had the steady thump, thump…thump, thump in my chest to assure me that I'm still alive, that I still exist. Now, it feels as if I've lost even that, with just a dull whisper struggling where there should be a steady pounding.

Is this what they call poetic justice? Living a lonely life with only the comfort of a beating heart and dying a lonely death without even that? I think so. I'm not sure. I've never really been the brightest.

Speaking of bright things, shouldn't I be seeing some sort of light right about now? I can feel my clock ticking its final tocks, almost like watching a flame devour the final bit of the candlewick. But even the streetlights have faded away, trapping me in the heavy darkness of my own soul. I feel like I've been dragged from the trenches of reality by the suffocating talons of the mystery of what lies beyond. I feel like I'm braving the no man's land between life and death.

Except I'm not brave.

I'm scared.

Oh, I'm so scared.

At the very least, shouldn't my life be flashing before my eyes? As I fall deeper into myself, shouldn't images be blinking around me like a reel of film? Shouldn't there be something – anything – to congratulate me on a life well lived? To prove that all twenty-two years haven't been a waste of heartbeats and breaths, of tears and smiles and laughter? To assure me that, in some small way, I matter to someone, somewhere out there?

…of course not. I've had a meaningless life, haven't I? So, welcome to the grand finale, Mr. Jeremiah Hall! A meaningless death!

Yes. I'm pretty sure that's what they call poetic justice.

Suddenly, I feel as if I've been plunged underwater. I thrash and flail, but there's nothing to grab onto, no surface I can climb towards. No, I plead, a desperation wilder than I've ever felt before pressing in on me from all sides. I'm suffocating – I can't breathe – it's completely silent and I can't hear my own heart beat anymore – Not like this. Oh, God, please not like this. I'm not ready yet. I can't die yet. How can I die if I've never even lived?!

Tears burn at my eyes as I gasp for air that doesn't exist.

I want another chance!

Or maybe I don't exist?

OH

GOD

PLEASE—

…And then there was nothing.