The Journal of a Dying Man

Walking into the small twenty by twenty room a guy tossed his book bag on a chair before walking over to his computer that lays on the floor in the corner of the room. The screen opened up a previously saved blank word document under the title of "I'll die if I don't become handsome" a comical work that he had been trying to write for the past three months.

His fingers sat on the keys but didn't move to add characters to the page. Every so often he brought his hand up and ran it through his greasy unkempt blond hair. His hands were skinny as bones from the lack of food he had eaten. His arms were similar to twigs able to be broken with a flick. In this room, there were no kitchen or fridge, the door was worn and beaten squeaky with each movement. The paint was peeling, and the floor had cups of instant noodles covering it. The only current object in the whole room was the computer that laid on his lap. The chair and sofa were both torn up missing chunks the springs popping out from the cushions.

Hanging crooked on the wall was a plain black plastic frame with something that was worth more than the whole room. It was a college diploma covered entirely in dust and unrecognizable besides the word university that sprung off the page.

The room has no window with the only light having come from his computer screen. The single outlet was where he sat, and the heater was turned off and on showing its age. It was trying its best to fight the winter storm but demonstrated by his breath being visible it wasn't working.

Seemingly frustrated he moves the computer from his lap before starting to pace around the room. He was looking for a form of inspiration from anywhere around him. With only being in the square for fifteen minutes he doesn't grab anything and just walks out. It leads to an apartment style hallway with evens on his sides, his room being 24, that looked no better than inside the room itself. Directly to his left was a door out of the building.

Outside was covered in snow and was coming down like a blizzard but he had no way of bundling himself up, wearing a torn up battered t-shirt that initially wasn't covered in sweat stains, his jeans were no better they were ripped and might as well have been shorts. Visibly shaking from the cold he didn't stop himself and walk back inside, he needed something to inspire him.

"There has got to be something out here: a beautiful view, a runaway child, something, anything! A dull life makes for duller books." The man commented to himself as he walked further into the blizzard. What he hoped to find was unknown even to himself, anything that gave him a reason to write was acceptable in his eyes.

"You want a reason?" The voice echoed in his mind, it was feminine and soft contrasting the violent winter blizzard. The snow leaves no life in its wake while this voice had awoken his spirit from the darkness.

"Who...Who's...the...there?" His voice was stuttering from the cold having to force the words out of his lips. His voice, muted, by the howling winds and frozen by snow.

"Do you wish for a reason?" The voice repeated,

"Reason for what?" He questioned,

"A reason to live, a new way of life," The voice continued,

Hearing the voice, the guy was at a loss. He never thought about a chance of restarting life. He never wanted to change his life, he may be unhappy, but he does what he loves in writing. Maybe he always wanted to be better looking, or make different life choices. In the end, though, he always found himself back at writing doing the thing he loves. The pain of writer's block might have brought him out into this tundra; however, to quote himself he would say, "Life is only interesting if you can make it into its own best-selling novel."

"No." His answer was short because the cold was making it hard for him to speak. He was not hesitant in his reply none the less if the given the choices time and time again he would make the same so-called mistakes again and again.

"Fine but without my help, you're going to die out here, forgotten in the snow, your dream forever lost in the wind. I know it's hard for you, Aster Ryou, to speak so I'll explain myself completely. I need your help, and by helping you, I help myself. I have multiple options succeeding you if you chose to decline, but with the given time restraint I have, I have chosen you. Do you decline my offer and walk into death's cold embrace? Or walk with me out of this frozen dream?" The voice was often pausing to try and collect their words not having expected Aster to decline. Isn't it always one's dream to fix one's past wrongs? Yet here he stubbornly denied the ability to do such, what sort of unwavering will does that take?

Then again what type of idiot walks out into a blizzard for the reason of looking for a reason to write. Have you looked yourself in the mirror because that in itself is a reason to write?

Unlike the ice surrounding his body, Aster's dull blue eyes were filled with a fire that could burn the storm. Death was the idea he feared most throughout his life. Hearing his options were either life or death he felt he was given only one choice – to live. He couldn't complete the story he always dreamed of since young if he was dead.

"I accept!" His voice was loud and bellowed through the storm, how such a weak body who was on the verge of death make such a loud bellow was from the sheer amount of passion he held for living. With that final roar taking all his energy his body fell limp into the snow. His vision was black he never the heard the voice's reply.