mattanvsworld

eMark was a well grounded man. He knew what he was there for, and he knew what he was about to do. He looked at himself in the mirror. His body was sickly and pale, his shoulders scrunched over and his eyes always drifted towards the floor. But that was him
The bathroom was meticulously clean. The shampoos were arranged side by side on a ridge, easily accessible from the shower. The soaps were organized by color, Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet.
Mark pulled the white dress shirt slowly over his body, and let it hang open. In the mirror he posed, as if he was a model. His eyes drifted back down to the floor. He looked at his feet.
His pants came on next. They were new, and still had a heavy crease going down the middle of both path legs. There was nothing to put in his pockets. He didn’t need to carry much around.
Mark’s hair was a mess. Curly and tangled like a vine. He took some gel and ran his hands through his thick hair. It stood, spiked, and looked… decent.
After washing his hands, he buttoned his shirt up from the bottom, and tucked it in.
He slid black socks onto his feet, and black shoes over those, tying them, only once.
The suit jacket slipped over his body like a black shell. Inside his pocket he found a note.
“Hey Mark,” it said, “-From, Mark”
He took the scrap of paper and lay it on the bathroom counter.
Mark looked at himself in the mirror again.
He didn’t look pale any longer. He was a different man. The suit was a shell that made him feel content. His hair had hardened and it looked clean. Mark looked clean.
He stepped out of the bathroom and flipped off the light switch.
The light that was always on.
In his bedroom, in his closet, from a beam, there was a rope that hung. It wrapped around his neck like an arm, tightening, strangling.
Mark’s body hung there for three days, his legs pointing toward the ground that had made him.