So Very Gone.

A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead, landing on his eyelashes just long enough to catch his eye by fracturing the sunlight in a thousand directions. He wiped it before it dripped further and burned his eye.

Exhaustion.

He had been walking for what seemed like hours, his heart pounding, every step resounding with resignation, yet echoing with fear. Flashbacks came frequently. His mother, when he was eight, reaching for the flyswatter intended for his rear end. The 8th graders who introduced him to his first swirlie. The high school sweetheart who intoxicated him, both in mind and body. The one who said she "respected his values" but slipped just enough into his drink to get him to sleep with her. The one who stole his virginity.

The father he never knew.

Neglect.

Even the little things haunted him. No, you can't have a dog. No, you can't go to school there. No, you can't afford a family. No, I can't, because we don't have any food to eat. No no no.

He stopped to tie the lace on his cement-encrusted work boots. "A steel toe," the shoe salesman had said. "Real cow leather. It'll never wear out." He admired the amount of holes he saw in the dirty brown boots, cynically chuckling at his own gullibility. Shouldn't have trusted that dirty mexican.

Distrust.

How much farther? He squinted his eyes towards the street sign ahead of him, allowing his eyes a few seconds to adjust to the distance. Damn, I'm getting old, he thought. Life is ironic. You're young just long enough to realize you're stupid, and you're old just in time to realize that you could have done it better. Like he could have.

Depression.

His face hardened, his eyes set, his lips slightly drawn into a thin line. He shifted the rope to his other shoulder, picking up a faster pace than he had set before. Not too much farther.

Just the thought of them made him boil. Her gentle curves, the giggle of his 2-year-old daughter, the pleading of his 6-year-old son. Dad, come play with me! That voice haunted him more than anything else.

But it wasn't his fault, was it?! SHE had left HIM. Her pathetic, weak excuse for it was a mere, "it's for the kids' sake". He snarled.

Bitterness.

More of her words flooded his mind.

"You really need to change."

"I can't do this! I need you're help with them! I need you to BE here!"

"Don't you love me?"

"OUCH! Sto--STOP!!! Don't TOUCH me, you bastard!!!! KIDS! Go back to your room! OU--"

That didn't even teach her to obey him. She left anyways. He couldn't control her, the b****.

Hatred.

She was his, wasn't she? The kids too. Both were his, and he couldn't control them. And even though he had beaten her into submission for a time, she had left. She stole his kids and left.

Greed.

He knew better. He really did. He shook his head, let out a wail of frustration, and placed his hand on a street pole for support.

He had apologized. He begged her to come back. She refused, and he didn't blame her. He was drunk, wild with rage. How could he have?

Regret.

And he was there. He looked over the edge at the cars below, each headed to their own destination, each busy with their happy little lives. The guy in the black BMW talking on his bluetooth. The soccer mom in the minivan, swatting at the kids in the back seat. The cab driver with the rosary on the rear-view window, eating a subway sandwich. He sighed.

Was anyone watching? Did anyone notice?

Did anyone care?

The road noise continued, just as before.

Cars passed over the bridge behind him, too, all caught up in their little worlds.

The cop with his dog. The freshman, on her way to college, her car packed with living essentials. The pimped Toyota Camry with a load of gang members in it.

Alone.

He loosed the rope from his shoulder, dropping it onto the sidewalk, observing the dust that swirled. Picking up one end, he began tying it, just like his friend taught him in boy scouts when he was thirteen. A few minutes later, it was secure.

A teenager passed by on a bike, a Wal-Mart bag secured to his handlebars. Giving him a cursory

glance, the teen passed by, his face blank and thoughtless.

Very Alone.

He thumbed the rope softly before removing his boots, hat, and plain white t-shirt. Hanes. He always thought Hanes was better. Fruit of the Loom just sounded...wrong.

Taking his bandana out of his back pocket, he wiped the sweat from his brow and into his shaggy sandy-brown hair, now specked with gray. Being old wasn't so bad, he thought. If he could, he'd give it another run. And this time, for its money, he chuckled, recalling the meager paycheck he made. He never could dig himself out of the debt he had gambled himself into as a teen. And as an adult, actually.

It was a perfect fit. Snug, yet firm. A breeze licked at the back of his neck as he climbed. A car behind him honked and stopped.

But they were too late. He inhaled, close his eyes, stretched out his hands, and allowed himself to fall. This world wasn't worth the fight.

Hopelessness.

Cars screeched. People screamed. Cell phones rang. A dog barked. Then sirens. People were given, orders and giving orders. Chaos. Tears. Ambulances and more cops.

But they were to late.

Gone.

So Very Gone.

"Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who according to His abundant mercy has begotten us again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled and that does not fade away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by the power of God through faith for salvation ready to be revealed in the last time.
"In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while, if need be, you have been grieved by various trials, that the genuineness of your faith, being much more precious than gold that perishes, though it is tested by fire, may be found to praise, honor, and glory at the revelation of Jesus Christ..." 1 Peter 1:3-7

"But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." Romans 5:8

And they do not know...