The pen spillt ink-blood onto the page, splotting out the words I had so carefully been writing. I traced the nib through the puddles of ink, swirling it over and under the lines of thoughtfully expressed last words and wishes. The ink mixed with the tears already on the page, diluting the ink as well as the words.

I set down the pen and blew gently on the page, drying the ink. That one breath upset the stacks of papers on my desk, causing one to topple and spread over the surface. My eyes scan over the papers: tax return forms, letters from the bank, letters from debt collectors and legal notices. All these things had been haunting me for months. But they would soon be of no importance.

I start shaking as I pen the last line of the letter. In Latin, the dead language.

Quod ego facio, tu nescis modo: scies autem postea.

And with that, I folded the letter in half, placed it centered on the desk to assure it’d be found and layed down, waiting for death the come take me.