It was just another long, dreadful day for the depressed young man. He could never find joy or pleasure in the things that he did, even when he desperately tried.
Everyday when he would be walking home, he would constantly ponder if there will ever be a moment in his life where he will find true happiness,
only to be overshadowed by the anxiousness and sheer negativity of what his life currently is.
Entering through the door, the young man made his way to his bedroom, locked the door behind him, and threw himself onto the bed. He was home, yet it did not feel like such.
To him, each passing day felt like clockwork. Get up; eat breakfast; go to work; return home; do chores; go to bed. The monotony of it all was becoming overwhelming.
Today, it had reached its peak. He no longer thought that his life held any meaning, that it was completely pointless to continue going. All he wanted to do now was close his eyes and disappear.
Then, he heard a faint voice, a male's voice. He barely reacted, and thought that it was perhaps one of the groups of teenagers walking past his house having a conversation.
But he heard it again, only it sounded more clear. The young man decided to wait and listen for it once more. "-at me..." What? He thought. Listening more closely, he made out the words.
"Look at me." That time it sounded as though it was coming from his right. He sat up and looked, and noticed something on his desk that was not there before.
It was a deep blue journal, and lying right next to it was a black ballpoint pen with a gold base and clip.
He knew that he had never acquired such items in the past, and that no one else had direct access to his house. Who could have put those there? And when?
The young man walked over to pick up the journal and examine it. He tried to make out any small details that would hint at something. A manufacturer, a distributor, addresses, names, anything.
He rotated it, turned it over, opened the front and back covers, flipped through the pages, but there was nothing. Just empty lined pieces of paper.
He put the journal down and went to pick up the pen.
It looked like any other normal one that could be seen in a business building; as he took it up, however, he immediately felt the weight of it.
He caressed the cold steel with his thumb and admired the glimmer of the gold parts when held in the light.
He spun the pen on his index finger, and could tell that it was perfectly balanced for it did not waver once. It was a very fine pen indeed.
"-e life..." It was the same voice, and it was coming from right next to him.
The young man turned to the journal again, becoming curious He picked it up once more and slowly held it up to his ear. The words were completely coherent. "Give me life.
" He was frightened and dropped the journal onto the floor, taking a few steps backward away from it. It was all so strange to him.
He could not help but keep his guard up and stare intently at the journal. "Give me life." There was no doubt; it was actually speaking - speaking to him.