Good bye

I can't cope with this intrusion any longer. 2 months I have been hiding away, no-one knew where I was, not even my agent, but then that pizza boy recognised me. I knew it. I knew it. Now he's been paid off by the vultures of the media and now they are camped out in the bushes near my cottage. Waiting for me to leave. I feel like a prisoner again. I can no longer stay here, hiding. I am out of food and I am out of ideas. There is nothing left for me. So what can I do. How poetic it would be to lie in a warm bath and open my veins, letting the water mix with my dark crimson blood. Alas, I don't have a bath. Scrambling through the kitchen drawers. I take in my hand the pathetic butter knife. Leaning it's cold steel against my wrist I know it will do little but pull at my skin. I aim its dull rounded blade towards my gut. Would it even penetrate my skin? I can hear the vultures outside calling me. Begging me to come out. They even have a bullhorn now. They are counting down, they want me to come out, they want me to face them, the flashing bulbs of their cameras, the incessant questions. I cannot face it any more.