The man in the mirror

Some say the moon is a watchful eye, benevolently enveloping all in it protective gaze. It was full that night, a beautiful monolithic sphere in the sky, peering owlishly down upon the world below. If it were true, though, Winston could not feel it. He felt neither the comfort in the omniscience of the "eye", nor the beauty of the full moon. Winston sighed, a soft exhalation of resignation, fatigue, and exhaustion. He had been doing that more and more frequently of the late, though always careful to make sure that it was audible to none but himself. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that even if anyone heard it, and perceived his frustration, his angst, and his alienation from the world, nobody would care.

The bells chimed, twelve times; a sharp discordant screech that scythed through the peaceful night sky,slicing across Winston's thoughts, interrupting his reverie. It was midnight, the hour of romance and serenity. As though on cue, a soft periodic squeaking begun - the squeaking of the bedsprings above. He swore, colourfully, with unmitigated vehemence and disgust. It was nearly a nightly ritual; the chimes of the bells would foreshadow 10 minutes of squeaking, thumping and moaning. It was a though the pair of idiots upstairs were trying to kill each other every night.

Angrily, he kicked a chair, sending its skittering across the room. Fine, they had found their better halves, and were enjoying each other's company, but did have to advertise it so ostentatiously, and on such a regular basis? He looked up, as though he could stop the moans emanating above just by glaring at the ceiling. It was at this juncture, that he could swear that he could see the pair of them stare back down at him, smirking, taunting him, laughing as he griped in his lonesome bachelors apartment, while they languished in the company of each other. How he hated them , the snide lowlifes that consistently reminded him of how alone he was, of how estranged he was from the world. And of how he was sick, lonely and unloved, an inferior good tossed out onto the streets to rot, undesirable to even the tramps.

Snarling, he hauled himself up onto the the ledge of his window. It was here, on the ledge of his window, that he often dwelled, for it was the place where he had the greatest peace of mind. It was here, that he felt truly free, away from the bustling office, filled with the charismatic friendly men, and sweet smiling women, all of them ready to drive a knife between his shoulder blades, if it would help them on their way. It was here, that he could get away from the moulding smell of his dingy 1 room flat; the piles of laundry scattered on the floor, festering; and the piles of unpaid bills lying haphazardly on his desk. It was here, that he could find within him a semblance of serenity, and calmness.

A gleam of his wrist attracted his attention. He looked down. A bright light from behind him had reflected off the surface of his watch, directly into his eye. He turning his wrist downward, sighing again. This watch was a family heirloom - fifty years ago, his grandfather had bought this watch, a Patek Phillippe, that had cost around the range of fifty thousand dollars, and it had been passed down to him, reminiscent of the times where his family was rich, and could afford such splurge on such things as expansive watches. But it would not be a family heirloom much longer. At the rate he was going, he would need to sell the watch soon, or at least use it as a collateral for bank loans. Even if he were to keep it, he didn't even have a wife, much less a child to which he could leave the watch. Yes, he decided, it would have to go, and soon, if he wanted to keep a roof over his head.

He toddled over to the table, picking up a can of beer, before hauling himself back onto the ledge, and taking a gratifyingly long slurp. It was warm, of course. He didn't have the money for a fridge, much less for the electricity it would cost him. But no matter, it was after all, still beer, and that was a luxury as far as he was concerned. He sat there, for the best part of an hour, drinking his beer, and feeling the closest to content he had been for a long time. The alcohol dulled his brain, dulled the thoughts mulling about his mind, and the pain in his heart. He sipped, appreciatively, enjoying his only respite from the brutality of reality. Content, he drooped into something resembling a stupor.
#
He had dreams once. Back before his nose pressed against the grindstone, and life was a daily struggle simply to survive, he had ideals and dreams. He once dreamed of social equality, where he could use his skilled to help the poor survive, to use his legal knowledge to be a public defender, taking on cases where the clients were to poor to pay. He once dreamed of beginning an upsurge of sympathy for the poor, where people would help and protect them in any way they could. He had dreamed of changing the world. It was to that end that he had taken up law, and joined the Office of the Public Defender, and started on his legal career.
#
It had been about 5 years into his legal career, and he had become some kind of local celebrity, in his zealous defence of the poor, and interesting, if slightly melodramatic courtroom theatrics. He had been coming closer to becoming a star, a shining beacon of light, that would benevolently offer a hand to those in need. He had felt as though he was among the stars in the night sky, watchful, and protective, ready to protect the maligned. But then, he had gotten careless.
In his zeal, he had made several inflammatory statements against the government, and several key political figures, blaming them for the growing rich poor disparity, and the plight of the poor. He had inadvertently made several statements that he could not prove were true. It was then that it all start. When the first lawsuit was delivered to his office, he could have wept, and might have started hurling things. Instead, he simply turned around, and plotted his response. His staff were looking on. Leaders do not show their feelings.
#
Since then, he had been sued for slander, for defamation, and a host of other charges. In addition, the bar revoked his license to practice and he had to go through the indignity of hiring a lawyer for himself. He was close to broke, and effectively unemployable, at least in the legal field. He was forced, eventually to become a clerk, working for minimal wage at a large multi-national. Quite a fall from grace.
Fortunately, his girlfriend stayed on with him, in the little house he had called home. But it wasn't long before even the house had to go - he simply couldn't pay the morgages. His girlfriend moved out, never to return. He would have wept when she told him. But he simply apologised, and said goodbye. Men do not show their feelings.
#
A drop of water hit his face, breaking his reverie. It had started to rain. Slowly at first, the small droplets of water that heralded a storm fell from the sky, as though holes had appeared in the clouds that had once kept all the rain in. Then it got bigger, the clouds deperately holding on to their innards, as the rain broke free, vehement in their struggle to escape. And just as quickly, it all came to an end, the final drops hitting the earth, and the clouds were no more. He sometimes wondered, if he could do the same, leap from he window and plummet to the earth, finally free, and emancipated. His emaciated frame would lie broken on the ground, a bag a shattered bones that had once be animated by life, finally unrestrained and free, in death.
Who would mourn him? An unknown face of yet another man who committed suicide, another tragic but ultimately meaningless death, just part of the statistics. No one would be concerned, let alone sad if he chose to end it. So what was holding him back?
It was then, that he made up his mind. The fingers that had held on so tightly, slackened, and the earth rose up, to accept him as its own. As the lit windows flew past him were reflected of his watch, as he spun and rotated in mid air. If your were looking out of the window, Winston could just be a shooting star, a glowing remnant of a comet that had once orbited the Sun.
#
John Smith had been walking down the street, thinking about his pending divorce, when a loud thump interrupted his thoughts. He hurried over to the source of the sound, and saw a dead body, lying spread eagled on the floor, like a marionette with its strings cut loose. A broken form of a man who had once stood erect, and had once been endowed with life. The lifeless body lay still, the faintest trace of emotions visible on his countenance. It was a ghost of a smile, finally shown in death.
PS:
John sighed. Another suicide, the 5th this month. Sometimes, he wondered if it was worth it, to be able to escape, for once and for all. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might one day, be the one found lying on the cold hard ground, finally free, to fly,  unrestrained, into the heavens. But he was not one to give up. The watch lying on the dead man's wrist bore a host of possibilities for John - $50 000 could go a long way for a desperate man. Stooping, he picked up the watch, and sidled down the street, leaving the body on the cold hard ground. As his shadow disappeared from sight, the rats begun to appear. It was dinner time.