John sat up on his bed, staring around at the empty room. It used to be so full of garbage – or life. Stacks of CD's and vinyls, most of which he didn't understand or care to at the time, and now that they were all gone, he wished he knew every one of those disks like he knew the stock market. All of the meaningless, idiotic lyrics crash piled into small lines he could recite in his mind. This is what depression felt like, desperately wanting something to hold on to, but there had been nothing left.
Eyes closed as he stood up, realizing that being outside was just as painful as being inside.
Tattooed arms had been wrapped around another tattooed body, and vice versa, tattooing each other, shoving rods and rings through each other's flesh, dying each other's hair some crazy color or whatever it was Gothic kids did with one another.
With a picture in his hand he leaned over the terrace, his nails picking small pieces of the picture apart, not bothering to look down at the pieces raining down on New York City. Denial had ended, and seeing the light proved to be even more shattering than the heart ache he dealt with through his first stage. Acceptance came, and stayed. He was sure that he had moved on, but starting back up again from emptiness wasn't going to happen with three divorces under his belt. This was the last wedding photo - shredded onto the streets. He'd decided one woman wasn't good enough for him, another woman had decided he wasn't good enough for her, and the man after her had decided the same. He was dying alone. Everyone had been right.