Sidewalk Chalk

He lit up a cigarette that he knew he shouldn't have as he eased into the weathered wicker chair. It was used patio furniture, but was being used as living room furniture. The complex had been scheduled for demolition for nearly a year, although, he had been squatting in the one-room efficient for just as long.

He wrestled the furniture up six flights of stairs several months earlier. It was June then. As drops of sweat collected on his brow and ran down his seasoned face, he questioned if the furniture was worth the hassle.

He looked out onto what was a thriving city skyline.

His breathe fogged on the window pane. He etched his initials. Then wiped the window clean in a single motion. A car alarm in the distance roared. He would have worried at one time, wondering if it was his. He had become accustomed to dismiss those thoughts the last several years, and, as joyless as that may sound, it was the dismal truth.

Breaking point. Was their such a thing? He once thought there was no such thing. He thought he could, by the power of God, withstand any trial set his path.
He could overcome. But, his mind wore thin. He traded his patience for small victories, like the pack of cheap cigarettes he had bought the previous week.
He rationed them as best he could, but was done to his last two, two days too soon.

He hadn't been a writer in his previous life, but had grown to enjoy it over the past few months, jotting down his daily ramblings on the four walls that surrounded him.

Poems, prayers, the beginnings of a short story littered the wall. But, mainly the contents on the wall was about the highs and lows of living in nothing. And being nothing.

Sometimes, he would write about memories that were carved into mind, although that typically made him even more depressed. Other times, it was just the things he could remember from the previous nights’ dream.

The kitchen had been gutted before he moved into the space. All the was left on the wall was an outline of two upper cabinets and a single counter that had ran the length of the wall, and a patched hole where the plumbing had once been.
Now, it was covered with blue and black ink, and in some instances, lead from pencils he had borrowed from a church pew.

He picked up a candle that was sitting on a table and walked around the small room. A small glimmer of amazement and accomplishment flickered in his eyes.

Its presence was faint and short-lived, but had been there.

He was down to his last two inches on the fourth wall of the rectangle room. 
Tears began to roll with a small chuckle as he began to scribble on the last blank space.

After a few minutes of writing, he was down to space for roughly one sentence.
He sat with his legs crossed, and leaned back, resting his palms on the floor beneath and behind him. He couldn’t think of anything profound to end his work with.

In the end, he decided that everything he thought of at the moment was worthless and concluded that the only way to end the wall of words was with his favorite quote.

“The world is fine place and worth the fighting for and I hate very much to leave it.--Hemingway’s ghost.”

He wiped the remnants of his evaporating tears as he stood up. He walked over to the table and lit the final cigarette.

Five minutes later, he sat in the chair, leaned over, softly blew out the candle, picked up the dull carving knife he found that morning, and promptly proceeded to plunge it deep into his chest in a single swift motion.