An evening in a small town. (Continued)

It was ironic that she knew she was a forgetful woman and he thought of himself as a forgettable man. Sometimes he asked her, in all seriousness, if he even existed. He would frown and reason that nothing he ever did seemed to have happened. At first she found it amusing to qualm such thoughts but in the end she was left frustrated as to not being able to see and live in the world in which he seemed to be existing.

She drags the couple of bags she's managed to fill and walks out the door trying her best to be cold and unemotional. Five steps later she's bawling on the floor. Taking another step away from him seems to be the hardest thing to do. But she forces herself up and continues on, then stops again for one last look, only because it seems to be the right thing to do. She hails a cab outside and asks to be taken to the train station.

He has never experienced pain such as this. It was impossible to even open his eyes. Physical torture was no match for this mental anguish, and, anguish it most undoubtedly was. He, who had handled with dignity almost everything life threw at him with utmost carelessness, was not prepared for this sucker punch it dealt him. He thought it was unfair on life's part that because it couldn't defeat him fairly, it had to stoop down to this. With an effort that seemed to him almost superhuman he gets out of bed only to throw himself out of the window. As he gets nearer to death and closer to the ground, he sees a most unusual sight.