text: So this is my first short story attempt and I wanted to portray what I think is my biggest fear in the form of a short story. Feedback is much appreciated He found himself looking at the bleak ceiling of his small room. His joints started to ache and pain as he slowly sat up on the edge of his bed. He felt a twinge of sadness as he stared at the picture of his deceased wife. He let out a long sigh and struggled to stand up. He tried to walk over to get his cane but his withered bones could only manage a slow shuffle. His shaky hands struggled to open the tray to take his medicine. He hated the idea of taking so many pills. He took pills for many things; heart problems, arthritis, depression... but he couldn’t keep track of everything anymore. He lived alone. He lost his wife of 50 years to cancer. He had two children, but they had left and started families a long time ago. In his bleak empty house, he couldn’t help but feel alone. He missed his children, but he lacked the means to pay them a visit. They rarely made time for him anyway. He was alone. He would always find himself thinking about the past because he had nothing else to do. Eventually, it always led to thoughts of regret. He found himself thinking of all the times that he didn’t do something, or all the times he wished he could’ve kept his mouth shut, how he should’ve spent more time with friends and family. He knew he couldn’t change the past, but the past was the only thing to think about. He had lived a life full of regret. He had gone through life only caring about himself. There was one thing he didn’t regret though. Meeting his wife, but now she’s gone. She was much more than he deserved, and he knew it. He knew that she would’ve wanted him to live on, but it was getting immensely hard. He had tried to go on without her. He had tried to find happiness without her, but he couldn’t. His body was starting to give up on him, he could barely move around on his own. His life was plagued with pain, medication, doctors, and loss. He couldn’t find anything that brought him happiness anymore. So what was the point? Why keep on going? Why should he keep on living his painful life? He found himself looking at his dresser. He started to make his way over. As he was walking he couldn’t help but think of his life, how he had went to school, got a job, and retired like anyone else. He opened the drawer and pulled out the pistol. He thought of his wife, of how happy she made him. How she’s gone... He lifted the barrel to the side of his head... what was he doing?! He couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger, he couldn’t intentionally bring sadness to everyone he cared about, he couldn’t... He started to think, Would anyone even care in the end? Does anyone even care about him? Or is everyone just waiting for him to die? Most of his friends had passed on or slowly drifted away. His wife was gone. His children seem to have forgotten about him. Maybe everyone had already given up on him. What more did he have to accomplish? What point is there? With all these questions rushing around in his head, his finger lie motionless on the trigger.