Hot tears fell from Jackson's face onto the paper. He felt so tired.

He thought about his near empty bank accounts, thankless job, family he hadn't seen in too long. The more he did, the more he felt his chest would cave in from the pressure.

Jackson looked down the note he'd been working on for hours now. So hard to find the right words, he'd never been good at expressing his emotions.

"They don't have a class on writing a suicide note," he joked to himself, forcing a thin smile.

He sighed heavily, a long, hopeless sigh.

"At the end of the day, it's hard to say what's wrong. When I try to put what's wrong down on paper, my life doesn't so bad.

But the way that I feel... It feels like everything is wrong. Like even my easy existence is too hard, too overwhelming.

I feel like I wasn't made to handle it all... Like life and I just aren't compatible... Like it'd all be better if I just wasn't anymore."

He put the pen he'd been holding for so long down and stretch his fingers. It felt good to be done.

Finnaly Jackson reached into his desk drawer and brought out the pistol he'd purchased just a couple weeks earlier. He pressed it to his Temple and closed his eyes.

A soft voice came from the next room, "Drop the gun; I'm here for you."