It was 2 am, and while the dorms were quiet on the weekday aside from the sound of distant study music an a random girlfriend talking in the hallways on her phone, there was still the nearby lights of late night essay writers and speed readers. It was strange that despite packing, he still had a fluttering panic that time was ticking by and he still had a paper to write of his own - one that wouldn't be finished. The sense of being incomplete - of being a slacker, was silly in the end, but even he couldn't laugh at it. This wasn't just a paper. He was leaving mid-year for good, and all that time building upon his good grades seemed pointless now, and he frowned on not being able to cash in his good boy points for anything worthwhile. This was a gamble - an uncertain future that hadn't been mapped out by others he knew before. You didn't hear other parents talking about how their sons and daughters had left with strangers to come back as heros. Then again, smart kids with diplomas didn't follow strangers who talked about shadows. Smart kids with degrees didn't come back to talk about it.

That was the weight of it. In the mist of midterms and papers, of homework and incomplete semesters, there was no completion or coming back to pick off where he left off. It was an offer that had no bragging rights back at the dinner table during Thanksgiving or at the neighborhood Bar-B-Q, allowing your parents a sense of pride as she offhandedly tossed out how proud they were - and how was YOUR kid doing in, what was it, Technical school?

There was no pride for them, and while he felt what he was choosing was right, there was the doubt he was being lead the wrong way. Where he stood was safe, a path proven and beaten by many before him, and had a destination that he could see, illuminated for most of the way. This offer was leading him into the dark, promising to fight shadows he, only till last night, thought was the only one that saw without being considered dealing with stress and other childhood traumas. That these weren't a mechanism and were indeed something to be terminated.

And that he knew was right. There were plenty of people on the path he was taking, and even more still, but how many were walking the way he was? It was worth the sacrifice, and so he told himself over and over each passing minute he doubted such a overwhelming decision, trying to keep merry with a false conviction that things would be fine and that he was going the right, the good, the rational thing. When that was becoming harder to do, the checklists were there to help him along.

His clothes were packed, picking out the sweaters and shirts that he felt were the most durable, the most new, and the most sentimental, which he placed inside a space bag and pressed til there was no air. This went into a duffel-bag, and a Ziploc box was opened and bag upon bag was preselected. He took out cash as he didn't want credit to show he was preparing for anything, and he took the campus bus to the store to buy toothpaste, a pack of toothbrushes, and his portable toothbrush sanitizer and placed these in a bag. Deodorant, Shampoo, and Conditioner were placed in another bag, and it started to bother him that among his things, he was taking room on necessities that didn't feel all that important among what he really wanted to take, but he refused to leave without being sure he had the basics to cover everyday hygiene. It wasn't until now, late at night, that he wished he asked his 'recruiter' if there were any stores nearby and what he should pack. Just a basic "What you think you can't live without." Wasn't a good enough qualifier, as there was plenty he couldn't live without.

After essentials, he moved through the pictures he had selected of home. A family portrait a few years outdated of his eldest sister, younger brother, and parents, to which he put inside his pack along and then, because he never printed them out, he went online and printed out pictures of his friends and family. The steady click of plastic, sleeves of glossy matte paper sliding against each other, and a mechanic cranking were enough to make his roommate Darold shuffle in his sleep, reaching back to scratch his black boxers.

"s**t man. It's ....******** late." He grumbled.

"Sorry. I'm almost done." He whispered, and the brunette only muttered some more, before reaching out to check his phone. A few text messages sent, he kicked at his comforter before settling. "You done with your paper?" He asked, only for the sake of wondering when he would be getting to bed, and the room would be quiet once again.

"Y-Yeah. I'm done." He said, feeling his scholars' guilt in having no paper to turn in. Part of him had been tempted in spending some time writing it and emailing it to his professor, but there was no time - there was no point.

"Grats." He gave a yawn.

"Thanks." Quietly, he picked up a few bottles of hand sanitizer among the small collection lining his desk, picking the ones he most liked and felt were generic enough to not get any other guys looking at him funny - wherever he was going.

Taking the pictures, he put them in an envelope and slid them into his bag, before reaching into his desk for his spare glasses, and then a bottle of whiskey he bought that morning. Top Shelf. Cash. This also went into his bag, along with two books on parasites, a notebook, favorite pens, and phone charger - just in case they had electricity wherever he was.

"Hey Darold." He whispered, and the boy waited before giving a 'hhhm?"

"Um....Thanks for being a cool roommate. You're a great guy, and were always nice to me."

"If you want to cuddle, I'm the big spoon." He yawned, teasing lightly and in such a easy, casual way that always made Melvin envious.

Reaching over, he picked up the Mr. Clean doll, a gag gift from a girl in his bio-chem lab class, and tossed it over at his roommate, missing as it only hit the wall before falling on his roommates' bed. A grumble came, and he could tell his friend was already falling asleep. Whatever seriousness he was trying to convey to his friend one last time passed and he only hoped that what he said mattered when Donald reflected on it later in hopes of easing any blame or guilt that might arise from his sudden disappearance. The rest was left to his own words, which he placed in a manilla envelope on his neatly arranged desk entitled "To my friends and family."

There had been copies and revisions elsewhere, long since deleted and emptied from his recycling bin in case anyone investigated. He then faked a search on random ways to commit suicide, trying to play the part of a believable student with a irrational desire to escape by a depressing means. His family couldn't afford to have him just to go missing, as hope would lead them to spend money they didn't have and years waiting for signs of his return. That was more torture than to cut it with a lie - but in the end, killing off the Melvin here was at least to some degree a truth, wasn't it? Whatever the case, he had sat since that meeting thinking of his best options in such a short amount of time. Saying he was running away or pretending to be kidnapped and missing always came with a desire to save or find those that went lost, and he watched parents on the news pleading for any word about their children to bring about their safe return. He couldn't do that. Instead, he decided on what was common in college, and faked his own death. A suicide note was simple, written over and over but kept to the point. He'd always thought that he would have more to say, but ranting gave way to saying too much, and he felt they had it right in the movies to keep it to a page each. Get to the point. Express the key points. Leave little to suggestion. This isn't your fault. I love you. I only wish for you all to be happy after I'm gone. These were truths, and the only ones he could offer. He was going away now from this world and wouldn't be coming back, but it was all for the best. He couldn't live in the world of nightmares. They could tie in the rest. A history of therapist visits at a early age. His medication that treated his mild compulsions to tidy up and focus on the tidiness of a room when he felt overwhelmed. It could be over-gloried and analyzed and give comfort in explanation. "Oh, well there were all the signs." It was sad that he could explain himself away easily in the end, but it helped now. No will was needed aside from a basic statement to let his family handle his affairs, and that all his money could be used to take care of whatever expenses. They'd make due. They'd move on. There was a conclusion here that shut a chapter on his life. His body wouldn't be found, and the cops would hopefully be distracted with more pressing matters. There were plenty of woods here, and plenty places to vanish. There was no other easy way to go about leaving those you loved. No Thanksgiving. Christmas. Phone calls on birthdays and talks on Sundays. Not even a card. Their communication was severed, but he couldn't bring himself to stomp on his phone in case of tracking. He'd ask when he got to the meeting point.

The beaten path was looking a lot nicer every minute.

He tied up the room, making sure the place was clean and sorted, and made his bed. He'd take a cab to the woods where he was scheduled for the met up further off. It worked well in case anyone asked about his whereabouts. Frowning, he opened his laptop one last time and emailed his chem lab group that he wouldn't be coming in. They had their own beaten paths to worry about and he wasn't about to drop their grade because of what he chose. Closing his laptop, he took his coat, grabbed his bag, and looked about. It still felt as if he was missing something, but he probably was. You just couldn't fit your entire life in a bag - and you couldn't bring it all with you. Despite what he was told, he didn't feel as if he was leaving with what he couldn't live without. In fact, he was leaving it all behind. This alone made his throat tight and eyes sting quickly. A deep breath. In. Out. Keep it it together.

Turning off the light, he shut the door, then slipped his dorm keys underneath. How long would it take for them to notice, and how soon would the pain of realization start? He hoped he'd have enough time to be far away before the tracking started, and that he covered everything he could in the time he had, and lastly, as much as it would be nice to return, that there never was that chance. He wouldn't be watching the news for a while. He already knew this.

Walking down the hallway, he moved from his home away from home, into the morning, and flicked on his flashlight. The ground was rough, and it was hard to walk with each step as he flicked his phone to call a cab. It would even harder to walk down the road, but unbeaten paths weren't easily traveled.

((Words: 2, 01 cool )