He was sitting near the creek

Where his friend had passed.

The sad, soulful, sleepyhead.

Where he had held the gun,

Placed it in his mouth,

And shot himself.

Snuffing out his very life

Like one would a candle.

Now Melchior had been there before

To mourn,

To grieve,

To think of what could have been

Instead of what was.

But that wasn't what he was there for

This brisk, blustery night.

He wasn't there to mourn.

He was there with something else this time,

Other than the clothes on his back.

He was holding a shining silver blade.

Glistening and glinting in the darkness.

This was the final step.

He was already dead;

Nothing could save him.

And as he raised the knife to his chest,

He thought of Moritz,

And of Wendla

For just a moment

Before he plunged the blade into his chest.

Blood pouring out of the wound -

Dripping out of his mouth -

Soaking through his thick layers of clothing.

Until his body twitched a few times.

He coughed once of twice.

Shivered,

And collapsed

Into the pool of blood

Beneath him.

And he was still.