Watching over his failed attempt at a fire, Henry began to lose all hope in the chance of his house becoming warm that cold winter's night. Henry, a forty-six year-old man of failed plights and disappointments, turned to the pale blue, piss-stained love seat in the corner of his living room and just stared. Sure, he would have liked to turn the TV on that was across from him, and drown out the pain that had harbored in his mind for the last two decades, but he decided to just let his thoughts hang around for a while.

Henry sighed, with a faint quiver in his raspy, smoker's voice. A deeply wrinkled chain smoker, whose salt and pepper beard that touched his outward set collar bone, smelled of smoke and failure. Henry had children, yes he did, but his children didn't want him. They would rather not have anything to do with him. Any attempt to make contact comes to a dead end. His children, all grown up and hardened to the world, stopped caring for Henry after the divorce he and his wife had a few years back. Henry, who had lost job after job, finally snapped. He lost his head. No fragile object was left unbroken, and a few bruises came of it in the process. After a year-long legal spat, Henry lost just about everything, except the money he had kept away in a bank account he almost forgot existed. Imagine his luck, remembering that bank account.

"Imagine my luck," Henry managed to say to himself, before his voice gave out underneath choked tears and a quivering voice. Henry was always second best. He never made a varsity team in high school, never had that promotion, never had a fulfilling life. His kids hated him. His ex-wife hated him. Most of his friends had fallen out of touch and family was practically non-existent.

With his head reeling, Henry barely managed to catch his breath. He inhaled quickly. His thoughts immediately began to race again.

My kids hate me, my ex-wife hates me, I feel alone in this world. No one gives two shits about Henry. Henry is a failure, a loser, a bum, a mooch and a tramp. Why should anyone care?

"Do it, Henry. This is your end game. Maybe not today. But why put off today for tomorrow, for another twenty-four hours of anguish? Of pain and misery? Of emptiness and depression? Henry can stop it all."

"But who would get Henry's possessions?"

"What possessions? He can't take them with him. He can't take this world's shit anymore."

"Yes he can. There is always a light at the end."

"Henry is a loser. End of discussion. This is over. Now do it!"

Henry, a man of forty-six years of failed plights and disappointment, finally made the best decision of his life. With one crossed leg, building momentum as it moved across his waist, Henry kicked the chair out from underneath him.