Talent. Most people have at least one. Some people can only use them as party tricks, while others can use their talent to make money. I was the latter. I first discovered my "Talent" when I was four. It was a sculpture of my family I made from some clay I dug up in the stream.

 When my mother first saw it she thought I paid someone to make it and wondered where I got the money. It wasn't until I showed her how I made it until she finally believed I made it. Making it wasn't that hard, I just had to mold the clay with my fingers until it looked like my family right? After I was finished I just copied what my mother did when she finished a clay pot and put it in the kiln.

What was surprising wasn't just the fact that I had figured out how to use a kiln, but the resemblance. According to my mum it was like looking into a mirror. The next week she had enrolled me in a pottery class and I really disliked it.

 As I grew up I was forced to "nurture" my "talent" and I eventually started making money at festivals. The money was nice but it got boring really quick. I started getting in fights with my parents as all teenagers do and eventually moved out.

Then "it" happened.

 I got a call that my father suddenly had a stroke. By the time I got to the hospital he was already gone. I would be lying if I said I wasn't sad, but I felt I got over it quicker than I should have. My mother realized this way before I did and we got into another fight I got in my car after having one drink to many and before I knew it I was in the hospital. I couldn't move. My legs didn't respond.  I had trouble breathing. I couldn't feel my arms. They were still attached, but the doctor said I wouldn't be able to use them like I used to. I didn't care.

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 In fact in an odd way I was kinda glad. Glad that I couldn't be forced to touch another piece of of that goddamn clay. My mother came to the hospital as soon as she heard I was awake. I may have fought with her quite a few times, but I still loved her. To see her cry like that really got to me. Why couldn't I feel like that.

Four years later I was diagnosed with chronic depression.

Another four years later my mom told me I had until I was thirty to find a job or she would kick me out on the street.

Two years later on my thirtieth birthday before my mother even woke up, I left.

I walked north. I saw documentaries about how the body decays after death and I didn't want that so I decided to walk north until I die.

I lived in a small town in the us near the border to Canada so I didn't have to walk far until it started to get cold. I would eat snow to stave of the hunger. I don't know how far I got, but I was walking for at least two and a half weeks before I finally decided to find a place to die.

It was an abandoned graveyard. There weren't any plots dug but I was able to find a very old looking but still incredibly pretty tree with a fox den dug out beneath its roots. It looks like some kind of shrine was supposed to have been built inside. The entrance was barely enough for me to enter. I curled up into a ball, hugging a certain sculpture I made. For all the good it did me I never did regret making that first sculpture.

I started to fall asleep for what I assumed was the last time when I heard a loud boom. I didn't care for what it was since I was going to die anyway so I just kept drifting away. My last moments were strangely warm.