Reaching into his pockets he pulled out the remnants of paper he had been so adversely writing on. These were his confessions, his pitiful self loathing and denial of his own humanity. It was his epitaph, his sentimental plea to anyone who would listen.  He scattered them to the wind, his ashes.

Staring up at the sky with apathy, he closed his eyes to concentrate on the warmth from the sun which seeped through his pale grey skin and manifested itself into his soul. He stood motionless, an acceptance of fate had dawned upon him and he was at peace with his sin. The blade moved silently over his wrist, the pale grey skin turning red under the torrent of pain which cleansed his heart from the misery of his life.