Breaking Point:
Shortie by Lone Wolf

~You re-arrange me 'till I'm sane~

	He slammed the door shut behind him. The small room had two windows
that were barely open and a weak fan. Not a good thing for a hot day like
that. He didn't really care if the heat got to him. He knew that nobody 
would miss him if he were to die there. Hell, he really didn't care if he
died either. He just wanted to end his suffering.

	He threw himself on his couch, the sole piece of decent furnature he
had been granted. It did fold out into a bed, but he never bothered to do
as such. Besides, he found a couch a lot more comfier than a bed. He rested 
his head on the pillow that was there and looked up at the ceiling. He 
muttered to himself, upset with the turn of events. He was ready to tear his
rival in half. The young wolf growled at the thought, not because he hated
the idea, but because he knew it was damn near impossible. His matted tail
stiffened and he punched the back of the couch.
	"Keep it down in there!" A voice called from behind the wall. "Don't
bang!"
	"Oh fuck off!" he called back. The incident was dismissed, thankfully.
It was doubtful either of them were ready for a fight. Death, at the moment,
was not an option. He was quickly growing hot, so he took his shirt off. He
promptly flung it across the small room he called home and rolled onto his 
belly. He sighed. "Why does it have to be this way?"

	He looked over the arm of the couch. Sitting there on his end table of
a milk crate was a stuffed wolf; the natrual sort, not like him. It was his 
little guardian; his sole memory of happier times. He reached for it. His 
aim was off, however; he accidentally knocked it onto the floor. It landed 
backside to him. He started to reach for it again, but stopped. He thought 
for a second, causing his already weary eyes to well up with tears. He 
reached for it and picked it up. "Happier times are gone, aren't they?" he 
asked the stuffed creature. He wasn't expecting an answer; he knew what the 
answer was. He cuddled it in his arms, letting the tears flow. "Tears are a 
sign of weakness," he whispered to himself. "Don't be weak."
	'No,' his inner self said. 'Weakness is what he is. Strength is 
allowing yourself to cry.' He nodded. It was true. He took a good look at
his plushie. It's fur was incredibly soft, like the real thing. Even though
it was a year old, it was still incredibly soft. It's grey and white fur
matched his fur patterns almost to a tee. And it's blue eyes; oh those blue
eyes. He hugged it tightly, as if it were his only friend. He didn't want to
let go of it. He never would.

	"Hmm?" He woke up to absolute darkness. He looked at the clock that
sat perched on his milk crate. "Two in the morning," he muttered, standing.
He had either died or fallen asleep. His hopes were that he died and this 
was an afterlife. He strolled over to the window and looked out. Before him
was the city scape. The sky was an odd mix of brown, gray, and black. He
never really understood why that was, especially when the clouds were out.
He sighed. He was stuck here for a while. Happiness would not be an option
anymore. He sighed and went back to the couch, ready to fall asleep again.

	"How much longer? How much more? Where is my breaking point?"

	He knew where it was. He knew what it was. It would be the sweet 
bullet to end his misery. All that he had to do was be patient and wait.

	Wait....

End

This is dedicated to Mark Macagnone, the lazy fat bastard. Thanks for making
my life a living fucking hell, ya worthless piece of shit.