He opened the door slowly and deliberately. His room was small, dingy, and yet, it was all he had. It was everything.

He shut the apartment door, took off his heavy overcoat, and threw it carelessly on a chair. The chair was old, his grandmother had owned it. Holes had been gnawed through the fabric by generations of mice, and stains had turned the once white chair a brownish color.

He walked over to a cabinet that stood on the floor. One of its legs was missing, and in its place sat an old family bible, with a torn cover. The cabinet's wood was scratched, and the glass door was heavy with dust.

Then man reached into his pocket, and withdrew a heavy key. He slid it into the cabinet's lock, and slowly turned it. When he heard a click, he pulled the door open, and exposed a set of several haggard wooden shelves.

He pulled a half-empty bottle from the cabinet, as well as a tall glass. With a shaking hand, he uncapped the bottle, and poured its fragrant contents out. He lifted the cup to his nose, and inhaled deeply.

He turned to face himself in the cracked mirror. His face was pitted and worn. His crown was capped with a tousle of grayed hair. His eyes were deep and sunken, and had long lost the sparkle of youth. He wasn't an old man, but he had aged prematurely.

With a gulp, he downed the contents of the glass, and stumbled over to another chair. The aged wood creaked as he sat down, and nearly gave way, light though he was.

The man leaned over to a set of drawers, and slid open the top one. His hand felt its contents, and he withdrew a photo.

The photo showed a beautiful woman in the prime of youth. Her strawberry blond hair fell to her shoulders, her blue eyes shone with radiance. She had a haunting smile, a smile that he hadn't forgotten.

A tear formed in his eye. Instead of blinking it back, though, he let it roll down his cheek. He raised the photo to his lips, and lightly kissed it, before replacing it in the drawer.

The man then pulled out a medal. It was darkened with age, but still brought memories back. It had once meant something to him, but now, it was just a metal. Useless. Valueless.

He let the medal fall through his fingers onto the cold wooden floor, and then slid the drawer closed.

His hand wandered up to the top of the chest of drawers, and closed itself around a picture frame. He slowly moved it in front of him, and looked at the picture it contained. It was him, only a younger version. His hair was thick, and dark brown. His eyes gleamed mischievously, and his cheeks were bright red. He chuckled at the photo, and then raised his eyes to the mirror again.

He stood. It took more effort than he had anticipated, and he found himself strangely tired, exhausted. He moved to the other side of the room- only a few steps away, and let himself fall into a sitting position on his bed.

He slid his hand under his pillow, found what he wanted, and pulled it out. A black pistol. The cold metal seemed to sting his hand, yet he didn't waver. He raised it slowly, deliberately.

With his other hand, he reached over to a small radio. He turned the knob on, and classical music burst forth. It was calm, even soothing.

He pressed the muzzle of the gun to the side of his head. It hurt, and he felt his body tense with anticipation. He almost lowered the gun, but, instead, he tightened his finger around the trigger.

The radio played on.