A/N: I hope I will add another chapter to this, but it's indefinite. If any of you are confused about the title, it refers to both Moritz's life and inkwell by the end of this, which I was going to say in the end, but it felt unnatural to do so. Anyways, here's Moritz's chapter (which was surprisingly hard to write, considering none of it is from personal experience. So don't even ask about that, haha. Saw that happen on a FP story once.) I hope you enjoy, and please leave a review, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

My ink well is running dry. I cannot for the life of me figure out what to write.

To whom it concerns,

I can't do that, it is too formal.

To whoever finds this,

There. That's a bit better.

To whoever finds this,


What do I say? I'll die of old age before I come up with the content.

Frustrated, I run my shaking hand through my hair, and it stays there, caught in the tall curls that I cannot fix. I think my hair may honestly start falling out with all of this stress. Maybe I won't do go through with it after all. No, I'm definitely going to do it. I think I'm definitely going to. I've already discovered the combination for my father's safe. I plan on getting the gun tonight. Tomorrow. Maybe in a few days. No, definitely tonight.

This is so difficult. I cannot decide if I want to go through with it, nor when to steal the gun, nor even what to write in my goodbye. I am an utter failure.

Maybe I won't leave a note. No, no I should. I hate to! I can't simply depart with no explanation. Part of me says that of course I can, it must happen all of the time.

Maybe it would be easier if I narrowed down the recipient of the letter, perhaps put it in my parents room just before I leave for the woods. If I wrote it solely for my mother, it would hold no power other than perhaps sending her over the edge. She is so absorbed in her own life, she might take no notice of it at all. I cannot, cannot write it to my father. I am already disgrace enough to him, and I refuse to let the last materialistic scrap of me disgrace him any further. I'll just write it to the two of them together.

Dear Mother and Father,

I regret to inform you

No. It's so wrong already and I've barely begun! I should think this through. What exactly had I wanted to include? Was I just going to say that I couldn't stand it anymore, and I was taking my own life? Well then, maybe there is nothing more to say.

Dear Mother and Father,

Life has become so complicated. There is so much pressure and I've been having these dreams…it all hangs over me like a darkened rain cloud. I just cannot face it anymore. I'm so sorry that this had to happen.

Regretfully yours,

Moritz Stiefel.

Well, it was a good start. I read it over to see if it reads the way I want it to come across. "I'm so sorry that this had to happen." I waiver when I read this. Am I sorry? I think for a long moment. Yes, I am sorry. But not to my parents.

I dip my stylus in my inkwell and try another direction.

Dear Melchior,

My one true friend. I'm writing this to tell you goodbye. Life has become so bleak, and there is no way out. No, there is a way out, but only one. I have to get out of here, Melchior. I can't…I can't live like this any longer. I don't think I have a choice.

I don't want you to feel sorry for me, Melchi. I know that you will miss me, and I thank you, friend. If not for you, I think my life might pass by unnoticed like a shadow. Please, do not feel guilty. That letter you wrote, it…it's not because of you, you were not the one who dictated the ways of…human…anatomy.

It's daunting, Melchior. Life. Truly, it is more daunting than it should be. I don't know why cruel fate has chosen me as its victim, but the struggles I face seem to normal people no more consequential or terrifying than riding a bike, so it's me, just me. I am so alone. You've kept me company all these years, but a boy needs to find himself to become a man, and it appears that I am too incompetent to pass school, let alone accomplish that.

Oh, and Melchior-take care of your mother. You don't realize how lucky you are to have her.

I know you don't hold yourself as a religious man, but I hope that one day I will see you again. If not, death may be just as bleak and lonely as life.

I'll miss you always,

Moritz Stiefel.