It was the first day of spring.

For the first time in his life, on the second to last day of his life, Edison was extraordinarily pleased with himself. He dog-eared the second page of his suicide note and smiled thoughtfully. Pulling a Post-it note from the jumble of odds and ends crammed within his desk, he jotted bank in large curvaceous letters upon the fluorescent pink paper. Who knew how long it would take a caretaker to divide his meager assets amongst his family? Best to remove the last thousand he had in his savings and place it in an envelope near his body.

A brief frown marred his face. Could he trust the police to hand over such a sum? Nope. Definitely, not. He grabbed his checkbook and hastily made out a check for one thousand dollars and seventy-two cents to his mother, then stabbed a thumbtack through the center of the pastel payment in order to pin it neatly to his bulletin board. His mother, obsessed with photos as she was, would be the first one to plunder the cascade of Polaroids displayed upon the cork canvas once she had been informed of his demise. She would be the only one to notice the check amongst the photos. No one else would be concerned about preserving his image.

There.

Settled.

He hadn't bothered to write a will. He knew his family well enough to know that he didn't need to. His mother would be satisfied with the myriad of snapshots above his desk. Rachel, his girlfriend, would likely cart away all of his books before his body had even grown cold. And his two siblings would eventually come to a peaceful solution on how they would divide four rooms filled to the brim with Ikea furniture.

Easy.

He made a mental note to erase all of the porn from his computer. That task was a bit too embarrassing to commit to Post-it.

He had to let them know how much they were loved. Edison couldn't understand those who would use their last words to blame others for their deaths or prattle on about how unhappy they were. His family wasn't stupid. They'd be able to understand the simple equation of dead body + sleeping pills = unhappiness. And he certainly didn't blame anyone but himself for the quality of his life. Besides, if someone was such a horrible person that they drove you to death, then they really wouldn't be too upset about you berating them in a teary emotional letter, would they? Nope. Didn't think so.

He wanted his death to be easy in a way his life never had. He didn't want to leave this world with any outstanding obligations. He wanted to die a man of his word. He had spent the last night carefully finishing up his artwork for the Zonik campaign. Cheerful chibi robots grinned at him maniacally as he painstakingly colored in each bolt jutting from their bulbous heads. His boss would be pleased with the work.

He tapped his pen against the desk. Writer's block. He really had nothing else to say except I love you, but he knew his family would need more. They'd want to know why. And he really couldn't tell them.

He had a steady job. Sex twice a week. A place to sleep. Three meals a day. Wasn't that all anyone really wanted?

And yet he was so unhappy he wanted to die.

It was the first day of spring.