Dying, to him, wasn’t bad news. He never understood why people cried over their dead friends or family members. He actually felt happy for those who were dead. It was like some sort of release.

In reality, everyone’s locked up in a cage. An invisible one, to be exact. Everyone tiptoes carefully on the lines of trying to be loved, to please others, to be the best. Everyone follows the simple rules of the society, everyone tries to fit in just to be accepted. No one dared to be different.

No one wanted to stand out, to be special. Everyone was afraid of themselves, they were afraid of being judged and pointed by others. Everyone does what they do, not because they want to do it, but because everyone else thinks they should do it. The world is filled with stereotypes, and everyone should stick to where they belong.

Dying, was like a gift. It was like a one-way ticket, to leave the life you strived so hard to survive in. It was like a key to open up the cage you were in, to allow you to leave to somewhere better.

He never believed in god. There is no god. There is only yourself.

He was in his room on the 19^th floor, where he could see clearly the night skies and the city from his fully glassed window. It was October, and the room was chilly even with the heater on.

He was tired. He was tired of having to pretend that he cared, he was tired of being with people he didn’t care for, he was tired of trying to be better, and he was tired of being cautious and careful to remain his reputation in the society.

Nothing was holding him back. Sure, he had family, friends, a place to work, a favorite restaurant, goals in life, places that he wanted to go to, and so on. But nothing was holding him back. Because above all of those things he had here, what he wanted more was to be released.

To be able to leave, properly, once and for all. To never have to deal with his problems, to never have to worry about those he loved. He was selfish. Of course, this was, in a way, an act of a coward. He wanted to run away.

In his mind where there was only him, it didn’t matter anymore. His family members and his friends would move on. They would forget about him. Someone could take over his job. It didn’t matter if he could no longer go to places he liked, he didn’t mind. Nothing seemed important anymore.

There was no reason to live, not anymore.

There was a bottle on his wooden desk. A glass bottle with pills.

There was a sharp penknife amongst his other stationaries. A penknife with a wooden holder.

There was a staircase that led him straight to the rooftop. The concrete road was a good 25 floors away from him.

There were so many things around, so many things that could bring him away.

It would be hard at first. To bring himself to do it. But he wasn’t afraid of leaving. He wasn’t afraid of losing. To his horror, the thing he was most afraid of was what people would think if he did so.

Attention seeker, they would say. Pathetic, they would say. Dumb, they would say.

You don’t understand, he would say, but only in his mind.

He contemplated on whether to leave a note. It would stay on as a memory after he was gone, but he didn’t want to leave anything for anyone. At the same time, he wanted to clarify himself, to let people know that he was doing this, not because he was particularly sad or depressed, or because he was angry or seeking for attention. He just wanted to leave.

To write or not to write? He went with the latter.

The next, and probably, last decision.

Cutting? Jumping? Or taking pills?

None of them were the way he pictured himself to be leaving. He thought he would lay down, weak and old, and leaving in his sleep. Sadly, the world turned rather dull for him a little too fast. He had more time than he ever needed. If he could, he would give it to someone. Someone that actually had the courage and will to live on. He would donate all his time to that person, and leave.

It’s a pity things couldn’t work that way.

If he had a choice, he would’ve wanted to die of a heart attack or a gunshot. Simple and fast. But yet again, there are many things where you can’t go with the way you want to.

This though, isn’t one of them. He had his own choice, of which way to leave.

Pills? It would destroy the organs, and that would be a waste, since he was a healthy man and his organs could be made use of.

Jumping would destroy his organs too. Additionally, it might fail and that would leave him miserably with broken limbs and a life.

Cutting. It sounded simple enough. A few slashes on his left wrist, and he could just lean back and watch his life flow out in form of blood.

He made his decision, to cut. The penknife on his desk was newly bought by his wife for him, a few days back.

He stared at it blankly for a second, wondering if he would regret. He came to the conclusion that there was nothing more holding him back, anyway. If there was anything, it would be the fact that he didn’t have the chance to bid goodbye to his wife and his daughter.

They would be sad.

But they will move on. He knew them well enough, and he knew they were strong.

They would do fine without him, for he always thought that his existence was hardly needed in the family.

He rolled up the sleeves of his black sweater. He sat right in front of the window, staring down at the city. It was almost 11 at night, but the place was still packed with people. People, straining to live their lives, trying to be happy when they know that deep inside, there are things they are afraid of, things that make them sad.

He was about to throw them all away now.

Everything would be gone.

He raised the penknife, placing it right above his left wrist, where his arteries were.

It hurt, but only a little, as he first cut himself. It was a light one, hardly letting any blood out.

The second time, he did it much harder. The cut was deep and blood squirted out, staining his jeans. Another cut. More blood. Another few more. He stared at the cuts, wondering how much it would take to bring him away.

It was weird, how some people said they saw the most precious moments of their life in their minds, just before they die. He didn’t see anything except the city view outside his window. He felt cold.

Was it because there wasn’t anything special in his life for him to cling onto? Was it because he wasn’t afraid? Or was it because he already gave up on everything? He didn’t know.

Things started to feel blurry and numb. He raised his penknife to make one last deep cut, which led to more blood gushing out. He let go of the penknife, and it hardly made any sound as it fell onto the carpeted ground.

His wife would be home soon. She would see him. She would cry, he knew. It wasn’t the first time he made her cry. He wasn’t one with a sweet mouth or a romantic personality. He was never careful enough with his wife.

But as much as she would cry, she was a strong one, that woman. He knew she would carry on.

His daughter was young. He doubted she would remember much of her father after he left. He felt a sudden pang of sadness hit him as he realized one of the people he loved most wouldn’t remember him after he was gone.

Did he regret this? He asked himself.

He didn’t know. Perhaps he should’ve left something for his daughter or his wife, perhaps he should’ve been nicer to them for a day or two before he left. He should’ve brought them out for some good food, he should’ve played on the swings with his daughter for one last time.

He felt weak as the carpets were soaked with his blood. His eyelids were heavy.

This was it.

He was about to leave.

This was goodbye.

This was the ‘release’ he always wanted. He was getting closer and closer to it. But did he feel happy? Honestly speaking, he was afraid. What would be waiting for him? He used to believe it would be just darkness and emptiness, but one could never be sure.

He always thought he would be okay with letting go, he would be okay with leaving all the people around him. But now as his life leaked out of his body, he realized how much he was going to miss kissing his wife on the lips, how much he was going to miss his daughter’s light brown hair.

His lips quivered. It was a cold, cold night. He heard the door opening. His wife was home.

He didn’t know what to do. Should he fight a little with death, to look at his wife for one last time? Or should he be the coward he always was, and just allow himself to leave, allowing his wife to find his dead body in their room?

He found himself straining to open his eyelids.

It would be over, everything would be over once he let out his last breath. His heart would stop, his eyes would close, and he would be released.

Footsteps came closer to the room. He gasped, his breathes getting shallower as someone opened the door. His wife walked in, as graceful as she always was. He heard her hold back a scream as she saw the blood. Immediately, he felt her soft fingers on his face.

‘Seonwoong, why?’ Her tears flew out, staining her beautiful face.

It took nothing more than a millisecond for Seonwoong to regret everything he did for the past hour. How could he have thought it would be okay to leave the love of his life?

It took nothing more than a single sob from his wife for him to realize everything was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. This wasn’t correct. This wasn’t the release he was looking for. He wanted a way back, but everything was too late.

There was nothing he could do anymore.

Maybe there was a reason why everyone strived to live on in this contaminated society. Maybe he didn’t realize who was there for him until the very end.

But it was too late. He took a shaky last breath, releasing it along with a whisper, ‘I’m sorry.’

Lee Seonwoong, better known as the rapper, Tablo, of Epik High, passed away on a cold night.

He was wrong.

There were more than he thought, the reasons that should’ve kept him alive.

This is merely a story, nothing more. Thank you for reading.