Shane stood breathing heavily leaning against his door. He looked to the floor, and there to his left was his favorite Shell Gibson picture amongst the broken glass. He didn’t care. He was in such a rage, that it was nearly unbearable. He looked at the broken glass fragments again, and with a shaking hand, picked up a large triangular piece. It dug deeply into his hand, as he could not resist the tight grasp he had on its razor sharp edges. Blood began to trickle from his palm, down his wrist and onto the off-white carpet below. The intense urge to take the broken shard and plunge it into his neck was very strong, and his hand quaked even more as he held the bloody glass up to his face. He wondered what else he could possibly have to live for. Even his friends questioned his character, and since he had no living relatives, he had no one. He took one last glance at the red chunk of glass, closed his eyes and screamed a blood curdling scream.
Everything was black. Did he do it? Shane lay there in darkness wondering if he was now dead. His eyes fluttered and then one by one they opened. “Shit!” he muttered. Shane realized that he had never got the chance to stick himself with the glass. As he sat up and looked around, he realized that he must have passed out from the anxiety. He was a failure. He failed in life, and now, he failed in death. No greater depression could have compared to what Shane was feeling this moment.
A little white moth fluttered passed his head at that very moment. “How the hell did that get in here?” he thought to himself. It must have came in the door when Peter stopped by. The moth made its way around the room and landed on a small piece of paper. Looking to divert his attention to something less depressing, Shane got off the floor and made his way over to the moth. He had heard somewhere that touching a moth removes the dust from its wings and impairs it of flying causing it to die, so he bent over and picked up the piece of paper that the moth was perched on. He held it closer to his face, and realized that the white moth had two black spots on each wing. Such a mundane thing would not impress the average person, but in this exact moment of Shane’s life, he found it amazing. He had never seen a moth in Newbank that looked quite like this, and he had lived here his entire life.
Shane carried the piece of paper to the kitchen, and set it down on the counter. Surprisingly the moth did not budge, but sat there motionless and waiting. Rustling through his cupboards, Shane found a class jar with a thin metal lid, and pulled it from its place. He picked the paper up and gently shook the moth into the jar, being quick to cover it with the lid.
Air. It needed air to breath. Rustling through the second drawer down, Shane found an old, pointy carving knife. He placed the point on the lid of the jar and made a small puncture. As he made to create another hole, Shane’s somewhat still shaky hand, slipped, causing the knife to jab into his arm. Blood came to the surface of the wound, and to Shane’s astonishment, this little cut seemed to hurt a lot more then the hunk of glass gouging his palm did. Grabbing a near by dish towel, Shane dabbed the blood on his arm, and then wrapped his mangled hand. He picked up the jar with the moth inside, and carried it back out to the living room, placing it on his study desk next to a photograph of himself and his good friends.
He picked up the picture and gave it a second glance. He was smiling in that picture. He must have been happy at that moment. It would be so nice to feel that happy again, but it just didn’t seem within reach right now.
A warm gust of wind carried a mess of loose autumn leaves down Valcore Road. It had been a cool evening, but something in the air caused unusual warmth in the breeze. Flashing lights in the near distance flashed on every house window, causing them to reflect in the evening sky, creating an almost northern lights appearance to the visible eye. Neighbours stood outside their doors, gazing in amusement at the commotion on their street. It wasn’t very often that this part of town showed any sign of chaos, so it was entertainment at the very least. An ambulance vehicle and police cruiser was parked diagonally on the road, blocking the west side exit of the street. Paramedics hoisted a lifeless looking body onto their lift board, and diligently they worked to strap the poor individual’s limbs and neck to the board for support. Moving carefully but quickly, they loaded the board into the ambulance, closing the doors behind them. “Looks like a hit and run” mentioned one of the accompanying paramedics. “Yeah, she is breathing but her heart beat is very weak, hand me the monitor” replied another.
She still felt so very cold. Attempting to open her eyes again, with no prevail. Who was there? She could hear people talking, but amongst her confusion, she could not comprehend what they were saying. The pain sunk in. Every part of her body hurt so very bad, but she was helpless. She could not move despite her efforts, and she could not speak no matter how hard she tried. “Where am I?” she questioned in her mind. She could feel that she was moving, and could hear a loud noise that sounded so shrill it pierced her brain. A Siren! “I am in an ambulance!” she concluded. She began to cry inside. Something was surely wrong. Something happened to her, but when? She remembered. Paper. She was heading to the store to buy some printer paper, and then everything went black. “What happened?” she thought. She was in so much pain, that the darkness got darker, and finally, she slipped into a deep sleep that no loud siren could disturb. The ambulance sped through town and deeper into the city, destined for the Newbank Memorial Hospital. It screeched around the corner and slid into park at the emergency entrance. The paramedics jumped out and began to unload the injured woman. The siren roared into the night.