The day I decided to kill myself, I saw an icy wasteland where a fierce wind rolled the endless stretch of snow like waves from one direction to the other. The small sun hung at the apex of the freezing blue sky and blazed fiercely over the desolate desert of ice. No birds or beasts stirred the landscape; nothing except cold occupied the lonesome plain.
A small dot became visible from the west. It slowly moved across the empty expanse, coming from nowhere and going forward to nothing; yet it persisted in its forward progression. Soon I saw it was a person; later I saw it was a man.
The man came closer, and I saw that he wore a pair of mirrored shades protecting his eyes from the blazing sun rays reflected even brighter off the ice all around him, a full length black leather jacket, thickly lined pants, a heavy cream sweater, and black leather boots which sank into the deep snow with each heavy step he took. I saw the man was dark-skinned with thin dreadlocks whipped about his head by the wind. He was tall and powerfully built. He looked capable of overcoming any physical challenge given him, even the challenge of crossing this snow plain which seemed to stretch to infinity in all directions.
The man looked invincible, but he wasn't. He moved forward only because he had been moving forward for so long now, but deep inside, he was defeated. He wasn't anywhere near the end of his journey, but he was near his end. I felt sorry for him and wished I could do something to help him. He was closer to me than ever, and I started to cry when I saw how similar this man looked to me. In fact, he was me, an older me, a stronger me, a me I could picture myself being wearing clothes I didn't own and a hairstyle not mine. The features of his face were the features of my face, however, and now that he had become so clear to me, he dropped to a sitting position in the snow, his legs folded, his back straight, his body tense. His movements slow and measured, he reached into his jacket and took a large, silver handgun from a holster. He stared at it, and the sun's light touching the metal gave the weapon a brilliant shine almost painful to look at. The man, breathing easily, was calm in the knowledge in what he must do to get out of what he had been doing. He knew he wasn't meant to walk this wasteland, wasn't meant to endure the loneliness, wasn't meant to continue on with this torture because of some relentless hope that he would attain his goal and reach the fringes of this seemingly eternal snow drift where all of Heaven awaited him.
Yes, the man was calm as he took the safety off the gun and put the large, shining barrel to his temple. He looked with my eyes into my eyes, and though I cried, he sat there, dried eyed and stoic. He refused to mourn his passing, for he didn't even belong here. I didn't belong here, and I stared as I put my finger on the trigger to kill myself...