She sat gently on his bed, watching through the open window
in front of her at the gloomy morning outside. It was cold,
and only the fierce wind stole the otherwise haunting
silence. Her soft eyes were red and tired, her sharp nose
wet. She's been crying for over two days now, stopping
occasionally for brief moments to regain her strength, and
then resuming her cry with the same passion and vigor as
before. She had a delicate face, and her trembling made it
look fragile. It was mostly pale now, because of the cold.
Her upper lip shook lightly, accompanied by her bony hands.
Agony just stemmed out of her figure.
He returned to her thoughts. In her mind she saw him,
standing steadily in the garden, petting the dog, laughing
and smiling at her, his big eyes, so full of life, his long
curly hair giving him a gentler look. The skies were blue,
with a few cotton white clouds, the grass was green and
fresh, and he stood there, smiling at her, happy. A flood of
emotion took over, conquering her heart completely. 'Why?'
she thought.
"Why? Oh god, why?" she cried. Tears were again falling on
her pale cheeks. With every sigh, rage was building up
inside her. Anger slowly devoured her, blending in with the
sorrow. The cries were getting louder, until they were
shouts. She began screaming hard, repeating the same word
over and over again. "Why? Why? Why?" Her hands clutched the
center of her face, and moved slowly to the sides,
stretching her skin a little. "Why did he have to go...? My
son, my baby... Why?" Her voice lingered on the last word,
uttering it slowly, loud at first, but quieter with every
second, until it faded away.
On the bed beside her was the note he left. It was wrinkled
from all the times she read it. He stated, rather plainly
and to the point, that he was tired of living and of his
life. That he was very sorry, but he just can't take it
anymore - the sadness, the loneliness, the aggravation - all
of it. And that he has decided to leave this world. The
handwriting was shaky and fast, as if he was shuddering and
hurrying to get it over with, before he might lose his
nerve.
The somber winter light lightened the room. The white walls
looked dull and dreary. There were some paintings on them -
a picture of a lake by the mountains, with heavy clouds
above, and a watercolors painting of an old man fishing.
There was a picture of him, when he was younger, and a
poster of a movie that he liked. On the wooden door there
were all kind of stickers, some of them witty, some vulgar.
Books he had for school were laid down on the desk, with
some papers, a pencil and other writing implements. The
small closet was open and all of his clothes were visible,
faintly spreading his smell. Two shirts were placed clumsily
on the blue couch.
She hardly touched the room since the event. He left the
suicide note in his room and took his car. At first everyone
thought it was an accident. He was driving too fast on the
highway, and lost control on the vehicle. When they found
the note, they realized what truly happened. It didn't make
much of a difference to her - the pain, so devastating,
could not become any greater. He was gone.
Her baby would stay seventeen forever. She had lost her
oldest son. She felt the pain entering her heart like an
ice-pick. Her entire body was shaking now, and the cold air
made it hard for her to breath. But she couldn't move. She
couldn't even get up to close the window. She felt that if
she moved, even slowly, her heart would fail and stop
beating. That her brain cells would die, erasing some
precious memory of him.
Pain and sorrow brought forward doubts and allegations. "Was
I not a good mother?" She cried, "Oh, how didn't I notice?
Why? My son, I loved you so much..." She began weeping
harder. She fell on the bed, face down, and punched it with
her small fists. Her mouth encompassed the sheet, and let
out a shrilling cry.
A few seconds later, the sound of footsteps came from
outside the room. In her heart, there was a strong
self-deluded hope that he has returned and she raised her
head looking in anticipation. A grown man stood there, with
soft gray hair and a sad expression on his large unshaved
face. He examined the room quickly, realizing the figure on
the bed is shaking and how cold it was. He walked straight
to the window, closing it, and then he went to the bed, sat
beside her and took her in his arms.
"Stop now, it'll be all right, it'll be all right..." He
brought her head to his chest and hugged her while she cried
softly.
"When was the last time I gave him a hug?" She murmured.
"What?" The man asked.
"I can't remember the last time I gave him a hug!"
He rubbed his hands along her arms, and looked up to the
ceiling, jaw tightened, struggling to remain strong and not
to break into tears.
"It's okay now, it's okay..."
"I miss him so much," She said, the words just barely
recognizable. She coughed and wiped her nose. "I want to be
with him, I... I miss him so much, I want to join him..."
"Stop it!" The man shouted sharply at her. He brought her
miserable face to look at him. "Don't you ever say that
again, you understand? Don't even dare!" Staring at the
ceiling again, he repeated his words quietly - "Don't say
that... Don't even dare..."

Eventually he stood up, slowly, pulling her up with him.
"Come, come now. I'll fix you something hot to drink". She
was as fragile as a dry leaf; a house of cards, waiting for
the weakest wind to blow it away. He took her to the door,
shaking and trembling in his arms, murmuring incoherent
words quietly to her.
Walking away, he observed the room meaningfully for one last
time, and closed the door behind him.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when he walked the old
and filthy flight of stairs up home. He was a sturdy big
young man, with very short hair, and a faint, trim and
elegant goatee. His skin was lightly tanned, and he looked
rather slick. He usually carried around a mean, serious face
that would intimidate some, yet as he walked up the stairs,
he wore a desperate look on them.
He placed the key in the hole and opened the door, throwing
his bag next to the wall. Strong smells arose from the
kitchen - tomatoes and onions, most likely a sauce for
something, pasta perhaps... The apartment was dark and
barely lit, as always; slightly warm from all the cooking.
"Is that you, Dan?" asked a voice from inside the kitchen.
It was a feminine voice, and the unique rhythm of it gave
away its owner's accent.
"It's me, mom". The young man replied lifelessly with a
clean, quiet, low voice.
He passed the kitchen without even looking, and sat on the
living room sofa, taking in his hand the remote control and
turning the television on.
"I made dinner for you..."
"I'm not hungry," he disrupted her quickly.
She came to the living room and stood next to the sofa. She
was short, and round, with a full face that was quite
cheerful most of the time. She had big brown eyes, and by
her looks and accent, you could have guessed that she
probably has a bit of the French in her.
Neither of them talked, and for a few moments, the only
voice was that of the news anchorman. The son didn't look at
her, and kept his stare blankly at the screen. She stared at
him compassionately.
"I know how you feel..." She started. "I... It's so sad; he
was such a beautiful kid, smart and always very friendly".
She thought of that one time he came to eat lunch with them,
and how polite he was, yet so at ease. He complimented her
cooking, and took genuine interest in how she prepared it.
She thought of how real he was, just a short time ago. Now
he became a memory; only a memory and nothing more. Sadness
and tears began to choke her. "Such a pity, such a pity...
Such a beautiful boy..."
"I don't want to talk about it". He said calmly.
"So what are you going to do?" She said quietly. "Are you
just going to forget about him? Pretend he never existed? He
was like a family member, Dan, you know? I loved him too...
I don't even know how we're suppose to get back to normal,
yesterday with the funeral and all..."
"I said I don't want to talk about it!" He raised his voice,
and there was now anger and resentment in it. Inside, he was
struggling with emotions. He tried hard not to remember -
not to remember the face, the smile, the laughter. Not to
remember all the times they spent together, the fun and the
studying; the conversations they held, about girls, music,
politics, future jobs; the dreams, the failures. He knew
each memory could be the one to break him, and he fought
hard against them.
"I loved him too, Dan, you're not the only one..."
He continued to stare at the screen. She wouldn't have it.
It made her mad to see him like that, a stone, not
expressing any emotions. He looked cold, almost cruel to
her, even though she knew he wasn't. Walking to the
television and turning it off, she took a harsher approach.
"Stop it Dan, it's not good for you to be like this, it's
not healthy, you need to let it out, to feel... and let it
all out. You act as if he was nothing, not even a dog..."
She stopped for a second to arrange her thoughts. "People
die, Dan..." she said.
And he couldn't fight it anymore. He couldn't fight the
memories. There was a crack in the dam now, and it would
slowly grow bigger, it wouldn't be shut, it would grow,
until the entire thing would fall apart, and the river of
emotions would be set free.

"People die..." He whispered quietly, and then it just burst
out of him. "Well he shouldn't have". His eyes trembled to
keep away the tears, and his voice lost stability. "He was
so smart, God damn it, I thought he was going to live
forever. Why did he do it? Why did he have to do it? So many
fucking ways you can die, especially nowadays, why did he
kill himself?" He looked down and small tears started to
fall down his face.
"I don't know Dan, he just did. Probably no one would
understand why..."
"He shouldn't have died, he just shouldn't have. He was
smart; he could have had it made. He had the good life ahead
of him - nothing but the easy roads, the easy jobs, and the
easy money - The easy life. What was so damn hard on him
that he just gave it all away?" He started crying harder,
and continuously wiped his tears off with his hands.
She drew near him, and gently placed her hand on his face,
passing it slowly from side to side. She evoked him, like
she wanted to. It was best to keep quiet now, she thought.
"And the only thing I can think of right now," he took a
short breath, "the only thing that's on my mind, is what's
the damn point of it? I can't stop thinking, that if someone
as intelligent as he, such a smart person couldn't find a
reason to live in this fucking world, than how could I, such
ignorant and stupid, so dumb - how could I find such a
reason?"
"Oh Dan..." She said so gently. Sitting down next to him,
she kissed his forehead faintly and gave him a strong
motherly hug. It was very reassuring for him, and he hoped
she would never let go. He didn't want her to. He wanted her
to take all his pain away, all his fears. She usually
carried around a word or two that made any situation look
petty, unimportant and laughable. Not this time, this time
she didn't have any reassuring words, only her love and
understanding, and he wasn't sure if it would be enough.
"I love you, mother". He said quietly, through the silent
crying. He felt so small, so vulnerable. And at the same
time she made him feel safe again, like she did when he was
little, taking him in her arms.
"I love you, I love you so much, Dan..." She answered back.
They stayed there, just sitting there for a while, close to
each other, on the sofa, thinking to themselves, without
talking. Thinking about life, about death, about reasons for
things, and how pointless some things are. They sat there,
with great sorrow, but with love, and compassion - for him,
for each other, and for the world.

Mr. Gabriel Malins was famous for his unorthodox teaching
methods. He gave many lectures to high school teachers, and
even wrote a book about the subject. For him, teaching was
more than just a job; it was in fact, a profession, a
destiny, a calling. It was something he both enjoyed and
perfected. It was an art, like all arts, demanding both
great skill, and enormous creativity - an art which he
wanted to be the grand master of.
Upon experience and intelligent he came up with a system.
The principles were pretty plain and perhaps idealistic, but
the way he practiced them was unique. He was practically an
actor, and definitely a charming one - almost all the
students were fond of him; he gave fair tests, and there
were always second chances with him. "The perfect teacher"
as one once described him.
When he heard about the suicide he was devastated. He had
never lost a student before, and it troubled him twice as
much to think that he lost the first one to suicide. Gabriel
remembered him, one of his brightest students. He taught him
English and History. Very bright, the boy; intelligent.
Always adding to a discussion, never taking anything for
granted, and often questioning facts and common theories or
interpretations. He was very friendly too, looked like a
good decent boy. He hardly expected such a thing from him.
He read studies and books about psychology and suicides,
knew all the symptoms to all kinds of depressions and
traumas. He tried to think back. The boy hardly showed any
symptoms, and most often exhibited the opposite of them.
There were many speculations now, but nothing really seemed
to fit. It puzzled him. And so, he spent his entire weekend
hiding in his usual place - his logical intellect mind,
analyzing the incident, always from a rationalized,
scientific, point of view. Though he knew - sooner or later,
he would be found, and forced to confront with his heart as
well.
Gabriel stood in his study, looking at all the books, laying
there peacefully on the shelves, containing the wisdom of
the ages, but more importantly - the true insight on life.
He was a handsome man, in his early thirties; tall and
upright. He had short black hair, and wore glasses with no
frame upon his small dark eyes. He brushed his hands very
slowly against the books on one shelf, and every time he
touched a book, he tried to remember how he felt reading it
and how it affected his life since.
Blazing guns, head on, he was going to face it. He stood
there and tried so hard not to think, but just to feel. To
feel that boy's sorrow, the instability he must have hidden
under his smile. To feel his courage when he got to that
car, and the fear consuming everything only when it became
too late. To feel death, coming for the boy, as he would
later come for all of us. To feel, not to think. But
ironically enough, for all his effort, he couldn't feel
anything.
He thought it was quite peculiar of him, to be so
indifferent, and looked down upon it, as inappropriate and
mean, perhaps even cruel, for such a time. Eventually he
excused it as too much effort. You can't force emotions, he
thought to himself, they would simply appear, eventually,
usually uninvited. He took an old book from the shelf, sat
heavily on his black executive-chair by the desk, and
started reading.
Not a few minutes later he heard loud barking from the back
yard. At first he tried to ignore it, hoping it was just the
dog's usual late night outlet, which would soon enough die
on its own. But it didn't. The dog just kept at it, more and
more, his barking hammering into Gabriel's head. So he
placed the book down, and got up to open the back door and
turn on the back yard lights.
He saw his dog, a slow lazy Golden Retriever, who bears the
name of the German philosopher, sniffling and barking around
some small dark object lying in the middle of the lawn.
"What have you got there, Nietzsche?" He asked as he walked
towards it. The dog stopped barking as he noticed its owner,
and went for him. Gabriel stroke its head a little, and as
he reached the small object lying on the grass, he bent down
to have a look.

There, on the wet grass, was a small mockingbird, injured.
It had a deep cut on one side of its neck, with some blood
dripping from it. Was it Nietzsche who done it? Or maybe
some neighborhood cat hunting in his back yard, he didn't
know. It looked like a pretty severe injury to him. He
touched the bird gently with his finger, and the poor thing
tried to flap its wings and fly, but all it managed was to
turn itself from side to side. Its head was hanging loosely,
in a distorted manner. It was disturbing for him to see the
bird like that, twisting around its head, squirming from
pain, not accepting the end that is near; clutching for its
life, even after it had lost its life-like dignity. A
horrible sight, he thought.
Gabriel knew the wound was fatal, yet some part of him, that
was perhaps childish and innocent, hoped to God that in some
miraculous way it would heal. The mockingbird would survive
this torment. He decided the least he could do was to ease
the small creature's pain, and make it feel comfortable in
these final moments of its life.
He took the bird in his hand, very gently. The small
creature flapped its wings at first, turning from side to
side, frightened, then it calmed down, and laid quietly on
Gabriel's palm, looking so weak and miserable.
He carried it to the house, and laid it on an old wool
sweater of his. An odd sickbed, he thought.
Gabriel tried to think of something he could do. Should he
take it to the vet, should he give it some water? He
couldn't think of anything. He just stood there, helpless,
staring at the small miserable creature in front of him,
taking its small and heavy breathes. It wasn't his fault,
and there was nothing more that he could have done, though
reasoning it didn't help. He just felt sorry; remorse. Any
time now, the creature would die. Death - the awe inspiring,
omnipresent, impressive force of the universe. He hoped to
stop it - to grab on to death's cufflinks and not let go
until he releases the small bird from its cold bony grip.
Desperately, he tried to hang on to time, to slow it down by
sheer will power. But time was running by, as always, and as
Gabriel looked in pity at the small creature, the
mockingbird took its last breath, and lay still in his final
resting place.
And then it happened. He felt it sneaking through his body,
conquering his heart completely, without a fight, or a
struggle. The sadness, the pain, they were invited. And he
cried. He cried for the suicide, and for all his students.
He cried for all the miserable people in the world,
suffering this wretched existence. He cried for all the
people he lost, and will lose, and for all things that would
be lost. He cried for life - the rains of sorrow, the storms
of hardship, the dim, murky vitality, and the small islands
of happiness. He cried for death - for all living things,
and the lack of honor in it. He cried for the mockingbird.
He stood there and cried for a few minutes, until his
unwanted gratification settled in.
As he took the carcass to the back yard and buried it, he
remembered an ancient truth he has not yet accepted or truly
understood - all things must die. Rich and poor, old and
young - death desolating grip would come for us all. For
some it is a relief, for others a great burden. For him it
was both, and more than that. "Rest in peace" he said, and
covering up the dead mockingbird, he mumbled quietly to
himself: "All things must die...
All things must die..."