For the past 96 hours, all he'd eaten were the condiment packets from restaurants along 45th and Rudd Streets. >I have no where to go. He thought. >I don't want to die but I have no where to go and I don't want to live either... He kept on thinking about how he didn't want to die, and didn't want to live, but all he really wanted was rest. Rest away from everyone else. He wanted to crawl in a hole, and not die, but dream forever until he could crawl out again. The people he had known, the people he saw, they made him feel nothing but sadness and self-loathing and guilt, all in different, and special ways. He had left his elderly Aunt's house 96 hours before. She hadn't kicked him out. She had only expressed concern that he hadn't left his bed for three days. She thought he might be depressed. And he was. But his depression manifested in guilt, and he felt so sorry that he put her under undo strain. It was best for him to leave, before he caused her more heartaches. So he put on his warmest clothing, and left, leaving a simple note: >I'm so sorry I caused you so much pain And he was gone, never too come back. Part II Being raised in a Catholic family, he was determined not to kill himself, no matter how often the thought came to him. He hadn't eaten in quite some time, and he didn't want to. But he knew he had to, for what he was about to do.