[ WP ] A suicidal narrator eats Chinese take out .

*NSFW- ( Laungage ) and criticism welcome. * 
 
 I sit in the far corner booth fixated on the pad in front of me. The empty coffee cup sitting next to me seems just as lost. We are both out of place, and out of time. Words just wo n't come, and my wontons have long since passed their prime. Two words are the only things left after I had a shit fit an hour back. 
 
 `` Dear anyone,'' scribbled there by the hand of a broken man. I just ca n't get past it, past how I've lost everyone that matters along the way. My parents have been dead a long time now, same with any pets, and any hopes of long lost relatives went up in smoke the day my dad put a gaping hole through mom's head with the family Winchester. Everyone labeled me that day. `` The kid of Crazy McCluskey,'' was all I heard at the funeral. So now I'm here, with this pad, in the back-water Asian cafe off of 5th Street. 
 
 I sigh and run greasy hands through my hair. Peeking over the edge of the booth, I see the cashier painting her nails some awful shade of pink. She ca n't be more than 12, pressed into the family business because they ca n't afford daycare or a babysitter. A small speaker jingles as the last customers walk out, their bill shoved unceremoniously under a half-eaten plate of Tsao's. The cafe and I share misfit status within the community, a poor take-a-way lesson for my last day on Earth. I plop one of the half eaten wontons into my mouth, tasting the overcooked pork in between slick, tasteless dough. Gags rises as it slides down, and I turn back to the coffee cup. A silent wish that it were full flutters from my lips while my heart curses the little brat at the register in the same beat. I muse a bit over the scratched out lines of text on the note-pad. 
 
 They feel like begging, and it turns my stomach. At the same time, I suspect that it just might have been the Lo Mein. Why should I beg? It's my choice to die. It's always been my choice, not some gift that the rest of society gave me by ignoring my very existence. I'm the one who's in control of this situation, however fucked it is outside of this booth. Outside, the rain bats against everything it touches, relentless in some unknown quest to rinse and repeat. I used to love the rain as a child, but it all seems inconvenient now. The rain, the bills, the relationships -- all devoid of meaning. I sink my teeth into the last wonton from my plate, savoring what little joy I can. I find that there is none. 
 
 `` Fuck.'' I push the plate to one side, narrowly avoiding knocking the salt over. I chuckle at the thought of getting bad luck today by spilling salt that may be just as old as I am. The note-pad is my only obstacle now, a mixture of baby blue, white, and shades of depression. I think a bit longer on it, and epiphany strikes. 
 
 `` Fuck you and fuck these wontons.'' I snatch the pad up, dropping ten bucks on the table and walk out into the rain, hoping it can wash me clean before I get home. 

