Tiny as a feather but loud as a truck, it screamed and cried for only minutes, for minutes is all it needed to awake the residents. Siren after siren, the pitch grew higher and louder than ever. Making everyone’s ears bleed while forcing them to dig their heads into their pillows in hopes to ease the pain. To vanish this vicious demon, one only needed to awaken out of bed and begin their productive day. The clock read 7:45 a.m. and finally, the demon was put to sleep.

     Wrapper after wrapper, the veteran laid out plastic throughout his living room. Covering not only his furniture and the floor but also the carpets, picture frames, walls, and even the ceiling including the ceiling fan and light. It looks like he planned on putting everything in storage but why cover the walls and lights?

     Once the veteran was finally finished covering every square inch of his living room with plastic, he began to pack all of his belongings into boxes. With all of his clothes in one box and electronics in another. Organizing his loft from top to bottom. It seemed out from an outsider’s point of view but why suddenly pack everything you ever owned on a Friday morning?

     The old vet started in his bedroom, then began packing his kitchen and hallway closets, but he never packed anything from the living room. The 70-inch television still sat on the ancient black stand than clearly looked like it was prepared to collapse at any given moment. That antique lamp his father has gave to him as a housewarming gift continued to collect dust on that puny two by two side table. Without packing a single item from the living room, Mr. Vet went room to room, closet to closet, and collect, wrapped, and packed every last item of his belongings or at least most of them. His World War II uniform laid on his bed, stretched out to be worn one last time with all of the medals he has once earned all those years ago right beside it. Polishing each medal to that perfect shine and then laying it back down, it took a century to make those rewards glow again. But his rewards were definitely not the only thing he polished.

     Once the old veteran cleaned and shined his last item, he went to go clean up, physically. Walking to his bathroom, which only had a few bottles left in the cabinet and only one towel unpacked. A comb, hair dryer, a bottle of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and one red, white and blue towel remained on the bathroom counter. The hot water began to flush out of the shower-head, steaming the entire room with fog. The fog was extremely thick, it grew difficult to see through, it even began to leak through the bottom hinges of the bathroom door. For a shower that only lasted minutes, the heated in those pipes made it seem like it lasted hours. With the demon clock reading 6:30 p.m. with those bright red lights, the old man dried himself with his towel, the towel he was given from a long lost friend, and began to get dressed in his former military uniform.

     While fixing his hair so it could fit into his old marine hat, the man felt a bit relived for what was going to come. Walking to his work desk, there were six individual letters. Each one with a name, an address, and an explanation with detailed instructions. The first four were instructed to be given to his family members, the fifth was a will, and the sixth was the explanation. After signing each letter, all of the veteran’s medals were in a line above the first four letters. With each medal assigned a certain person and each medal held a strong meaning for that specific family member.

     A few moments later, after observing all of medals and letters in place, the old man picked up his last shining belonging and made his way to his living room. There was a chair in the middle of the room. Completely covered in plastic, just like everything else in that room. The marine veteran loaded his M9 personal firearm he was given during his time served in the United States Marine Core. The same firearm he used to take his first life. Clocking the two and half pound gun, his eyes became heavy, his breathe grew lighter, and his sly eyes turned to the clock which read 8:31 p.m. His grip became tighter than ever. The clock finally hit 8:32 p.m. Eastern Time. The old marine veteran immediately thought of the time he took his first life, at 8:32 p.m.

     “I am sorry,” said the veteran, shortly before he put the firearm to the right side of his forehead and pulled trigger. Before he knew it, it was 7:45 a.m. on Friday the 13th and all he could hear was his clock screaming to be shut off. It was now time for him to get out of bed and begin his productive day.