His name was Stub Myers. A short little man with a cheeky smile and a rather rounded nose. His daily routine consisted of roaming about the streets in his gray, almost drab attire, smiling at those he passed. Not an exciting occupation, nor by any means profitable. If anything, it was pointless. His life was a vicious cycle of strange faces with no recognition, a pattern with no meaning, a listless continuation of existence. And to what purpose was there in living, when a man is thrown into such a desolate world?

This was the question Stub Myers asked of himself, as again he took the familiar stroll down a busy sidewalk. Sometimes he wished for the chance to slip away—to vanish into a state of nothingness. But even then, no one would notice him. The world would go on, just as it always does, and the sun would still rise and the birds would still sing...

He stopped. His eyes went to the window of a local pawnshop. Through that smudged, fingerprinted glass, Stub Myers saw what to him seemed like an escape. An escape from the monotony. An escape from the painful bore of friendlessness. An escape from his life.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out some wadded bills. This is what you want, isn't it? He stood there in mute indecision. A frown clouded over his face—dulling over his eyes, tugging at his lips. He stared through the window, bills laying heavy in his palm. Sweat beaded his brow. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. Well? The question ripped through him—tempting him. What's stopping you?

And what was stopping him? What did he have to live for?

Nothing. I've got nothing to live for. He ordered his legs into motion and opened the door of the pawn shop. A little bell rang above his head. Ringing. Ringing. Ringing...

Why wouldn't it stop ringing?

His head pounded, throbbing in his temples as he walked towards the window. With a trembling hand, he lifted the gun from its black velvet display cloth. It felt clean in his hand. Cold. Promising. Belligerent.

Jolts of excitement worked through him. In his hand, he held a purpose. The idea shouldn't seem so pleasing—so beautiful. He should be hesitant, and some nagging voice inside of him should over power the urge.

But it didn't. There was no conscious—not to Stub Myers. Maybe once, but not anymore. He was tired of the lonely. The desolation. He was tired of half, unconcerned smiles tossed to him by the strangers he lived for—strangers he was forced to live for. He'd been pushed to it. If he would have had family, it would have been different. Even friends. Just one friend. Just someone that cared...

But no one cared. The acknowledgment settled in his stomach, just as it did every morning. Just as it did when he walked the streets, desperate for someone to talk with him, touch him, love him.

No more. He strode to the counter, held out the price tag, and tossed the bills at the clerk.

Then he walked out the door. Back onto the street. It was funny, but he didn't feel so small—not with the gun in the pocket of his gray coat. He felt important, as if the world were at his mercy, and maybe it was. After all, he could do anything he wanted. He could kill. He could make them pay for the suffering he'd endured. If they could have accepted him, then he wouldn't be doing this. But it was their fault. All of them.

He scanned the faces he passed. The anger surged inside of him, like angry waves plunging him under until he was breathless. But he couldn't do it here. He had to wait. He had to wait for the right time, when everyone would notice...

And so he walked. The day went by slowly, and the strangers still returned his smile with an annoyed one of their own. They'll see. Just wait. He smiled and kept walking. There was a bounce to his walk, a slight bounce that had never been there before. Maybe it was because he was happy. Maybe it was the freedom, the freedom that weighted down his gray coat in the left pocket.

The sound of children squealing and cackling rose on the air. Dogs barked and whined. Parents yelled and some laughed.

The park. Yes. That was it.

He turned off his sidewalk and made his way inside. He found a quiet bench, with a wet newspaper laying on one end and a chewed through dog leash tied around one leg. He sat down. Fingered the gun. And smiled.

A father tossed a ball to his son. The boy missed, scurried for it, then walloped it back at his father.

An older woman ran manicured fingers through her dog's fur, talking to it softly as if persuading it to quit barking.

A teenager slouched on another bench. She frowned, said something into the phone, then clipped it shut and thrust out her lower lip, obviously dismayed.

A man with dark shaded glasses steered the John Deer lawn mower in strips across the grass. The smell wafted through the air, pleasant, aromatic, lovely...

The scene was peaceful. The setting quite. The noises tranquil.

It was all about to change—all of their lives—disrupted into madness.

Stub Myers stood to his feet and pulled out the gun. His finger slipped over the trigger. He aimed. This is for making me lonely. This is for making this world an empty home. This is for leaving me friendless. The bullet cracked in the air, screaming over the world.

The father gasped, fingers groping at the wound. But even his fingers wouldn't stop the blood. It gushed from his stomach, staining his blue jeans, spilling over the fresh-cut grass. His eyes turned wide. Horror stricken. He stared at the old man across from him, everything in his face screaming out the word, Why? Then he jerked, head kicking backwards, neck going stiff. He toppled to the ground in a heap.

The son screamed...

The old woman drew her dog into her arms, closing her eyes...

The teen swallowed, tears in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks...

The world was silent. Perfectly silent.

Stub Myers smiled, and the boy met his eyes painfully. You did it. They'll know your name.

The boy kept staring.

It serves them right. They deserve it for ignoring you.

The boy's limbs trembled. Anguish etched along his eyes, agony that left him pale. His hand shook as he cupped his mouth, stifling a sob, staring...

“Stop looking at me!” Stub bellowed the words.

But no one listened. They all stared. So many eyes, all staring at him, all watching, hating, abhorring...

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. What have I done? The gun felt heavy—too heavy to hold up anymore. He wanted to drop it, but he couldn't. This was his escape, right? His freedom?

Those eyes, so young and wide and hurt...

Stub turned away, but he felt the eyes on his back, stabbing through him. No. Stop. Don't look at me. Yes, they knew him. They all knew him. But why did they stare like that?

He ordered his feet to run, but they wouldn't move. He ordered his mouth to yell, to tell them to stop it—but not even his voice would work. He gripped the gun harder, tighter—and then he knew. This gun—my escape. He lifted it up, leveled it at his head, closed his eyes.

His finger pulled and his body jerked, then fell.

The people stared.

Stub Myers—a short little man with a cheeky smile and a rather rounded nose. He'd wanted attention. He'd wanted to be noticed, for people to know his name and look at him.

Stub Myers had gotten what he wanted.

And the people still stared...