There is no ending to this story-
Let me go ahead and clarify, there is no end to this story. Despite the ending marks and the assumption in the reader's mind, there is no end to this story. All endings are only alternatives, what could have been. But, and unfittingly to some, all illusion just like this story. I will not get to finish, just like I will not be able to show you the view from my hotel room, you would have loved it Shannon, you, and the boys, but you are not here of course you cannot be its physiologically impossible. Instead, I am chaperoned by a watered-down glass of whiskey, I was never much of a snuffer, yet the whiskey's partner lay forgotten in my homemade ashtray made by the two rats we called children. I hope you are reading this somewhere, or at least they read it at your funeral, or in the court case. Like I said, there is no conclusion, only alternative routes to the truth. I do not regret what I did Shannon. Unlike you with you going up to the heavens for whatever meets you, I will be dragged into the deepest part of hell for my sins. But if you, a civilian who just so happened to find this letter in my laundry, or if you are the officers investigating my wife and children's murder and have somehow tracked it back to me, you will be reading this next to my dead corpse. Congratulations. You have gotten farther in the last five minutes than the joke of a system has in 20 years, and while your thumbs smears across the blood-soaked paper remember this, this is not the end of the story, it does not exist.
I wanted to stop watching and start taking part. Although, we do not always get what we want in the end, do we? I wanted to be an inspiring artist, not some scum like Van Gogh or any other man who was above his sixties and could pull a painting from his tail like it was nothing. But the underdog in this competition humans call life, the man who would be turned down repeatedly from art museums or simply spat on like a hobo in the streets by the art critics. I was not a show dog. I did not need the people's approval, approval may have earned you fame and fortune sure but fame, turned you soft. I was not soft, despite how women gleamed at me with such desire, that I was the poor antelope in this jungle filled with cougars and damsels their burning eyes filled with determination and desire. But I am sure I am not the only man in his early 20s living where I do those experiences this, unwanted attention. There was no ending to that part of my life, even in my later 60s women still stared at me like I was a lost puppy carrying a bone with a big bow attached. A present for the taking. The art side of me however never blossomed as a young man whose father was pushing for him to find a wife. "Jonathan!" he'd say in his usual exasperated tone, it was always like that with me, "when are you going to find yourself a nice wife to settle down and have me some grand babies with?" I would always respond the same way, my own exhausted tone mimicking his words, before mumbling a tone which was almost inaudible "When your old hateful senile body is six feet below where I stand now." I did not want a wife, while of course being a Christian man I was Uranian. A sinner. The times were unlike the modern era, the little old hags would snark their lips at even the sight of young children of the same gender holding hands, showing acute shrewdness before turning away and off to their decorative tea rooms where they were protected from the real world
As luck would have it, in the older years I did start taking part when a decade passed, I had already started to grow gray whiskers on my face, the man's way so deciding the time has come for him to marry. Forget his dreams, and any sort of occupation he had hoped to achieve, it would be all about her soon. For me, my her was Shannon Cumber dale, name slipped off the tongue nicely, which in the end, coaxed me to marry her, it had nothing to do with the large mansion her family owned or her promised fortune when she died. Simply her name. Shannon was a sickly woman, that is why I believe I could get so far without anyone being suspicious about her death. She was a younger hag with strawberry colored hair and the greenest eyes, they did not compare to a gem of any sort I had seen over my tiresome years of living. They were perfect, like fresh grapes right for the plucking. However, she herself was reaching older age, meaning she had a motherly instinct that needed fulfilled. So, one Hallow October night I did my deed as an old geezer, together we would have two children. The result of planting my seed was torment. For 10 months, I was the slave of the hormonal bitch I called a wife. Upon the day she was due, she couldn't even wait until we got to the hospital. Ruining my leather seats with her fluids, a horrid relation from the start.
The brats were not mine. That was obvious from the moment they were born. Their hair was light blond-haired person, while mine was a dusty brown, their eyes hazel while mine were a rich gray. Genetics had nothing to do with the fact that I knew the hag had had an affair with the young handsome compatriot down the street. Good, they could have each other. I would never say aloud, I was jealous. The dirty creatures, tiny helpless unable to do anything for themselves. It disgusted me. This happened over the next 6 years, the whining, the constant noise, I could not take it anymore. Although I waited, like a good patient husband, I waited for the next two years before I acted. My dream of making art had come true. I sold my sculptures to a local museum, I had inherited my late wife's fortune, I had earned the respect of many with my beautifully illuminated art pieces. The statues in my new mansion made the home feel alive.
Which, unfortunately dear whoever found this letter, you have found my life of mine is now over. A week ago, the search for me had started and they had found the bodies of the eight-year-old rats and the hag in the sculptures. I am not sorry. I do not need your forgiveness or sympathy. But I do pity you, even though my dead corpse I can hear the police sirens wailing painfully in the background and approaching quickly. As you can see reader, you can see why I say this has no ending, you will be tried and convicted of killing me. And even when you rot in your jail cell, the story will still have no end.
