A story of death.
He was an unconsenting cog; a slave to life itself, of which he desired to be part of no more.
He simply yearned for peace and escape from the weight of his existence.
He had lost all will to go on.
He dialled a ride to a desolate forest, thanked the driver, and left.
He walked and he walked, the leaves crunching beneath him as he left society more and more behind with each passing step he took.
He stopped once he found a nice, cosy, mossy plain of ground next to a river to lie down and rest upon.
No one would find him here.
Not for a while, at least.
He sat up one last time, undressed in the slightest, and took a few too many pills in order to leave his nerves numbed forever.
He gently layed himself down once more before closing his eyes.
…
It didn’t happen quickly, but eventually it did, though his mind was gone far before it even began: The moss rose up from the ground and claimed his body.
The seasons came and went, with the leaves falling upon him in the autumn and the snow enveloping him into a mere mount with winter. Spring thawed the snow and by the time summer came around he was human no more.
He was at rest forever, once nothing and now nothing.
Missing to the eyes of the public, never to be seen again.
