The End Of Gregory Dean

Warning: The following story may be depressing, and I am sorry if this causes sadness.

The End Of Gregory Dean

In a backstreet of a city, a lone figure bent crookedly over a meager fire. The many layers of torn clothes and rags did little to protect him from the cold, biting wind of the howling night. His long shadow cast menacingly across the paved wall, he sat down to take a rest. He was incredibly weary. An unstoppable, unforgiving cold began to creep into his limbs and still his bones. His eyes glazed over, blinking away the biting air lazily; in a trance. As if in a dream, he saw his head slowly turning to cold, cracked asphalt. He felt himself start to descend toward the ground. His fall seemed to last decades.
As his eyes closed for the last time, he pondered the remainder of his existence. There were no friends to think of, no family to reminisce on, and nobody to mourn his passing. He would die alone with the ever-hardening earth, with not a single trace of his life. The most horrible death, he realized, was not with pain from the body, but an ache of the heart. Nobody would love him, nobody would remember him. He thought of his funeral. he owned nothing worth possessing. None would attend. He was alone in this world, with nobody to turn to. His heart seemed to throb with the pain of his realization and he was overcome with a sudden melancholy that can only be felt in the soul. Fading, sinking, drowning in the all consuming darkness, he suffered an eternity of pain deeper than comprehension. Falling through a never ending abyss.
He closed his eyes completely, shutting out all light and replaced with a darkness so deep, it could not be pierced. His thoughts ended suddenly; cut off. He did not feel is face hit the sharp ground nor hear the thud of his lifeless being resound around him. But he could feel the cold that consumed him, his essence; his heart, soul, and body. The black, cold, wave that swept and destroyed all leaving a barren canvas, ripped and tortured.
Still, the ache he felt with his heart hurt more than all else. A hole in his soul punctured him, sucking him in; imploding. Now, the pain subsided and he did not feel as much pain as an empty hollowness that lacked all, diluting his senses, his emotions, his thoughts, his world. Nothing remained. As his last senses and thoughts left him, all else faded. Gregory Dean died that day in a back alley, passing of pneumonia and starvation. That's what the doctors said. But in reality, Gregory died of a lonely, unloved heart.
A child walked with his mother, hand in hand. The sun had reached its peak, and he enjoyed bathing in its warmth. As he skipped and traversed the sidewalk, he looked down a very ordinary alley, just like the many he had seen on his walk. However, in this alley, the boy saw the shape of a figure, slumped against the wall. This worried the boy, and he stopped skipping for a moment. His mother turned with a smile, but this quickly faded when she saw the sleeping man. She briskly grabbed her child's hand and strode away. "How about some ice cream? How does that sound?". The child, ecstatic with the idea of a treat giggled and skipped down the path once more. He had soon forgotten the man.

Note from the author:
Gregory Dean suffered the most painful end of all. The point of the story is to not end up like him. Make friends, love, and live.

Thanks for reading,
Brendan