The tip of a thick, black marker sliced its way across the face of a calendar, marking off yet another night — another night of inner turmoil… and regret.

Wednesday. It was a Wednesday. One dreary evening looked so much like the next that it was difficult to distinguish between days of the week… or hours… or minutes even. But perhaps that was all for the best. After all, what was one more speck of annoyance in the bloody sea that was his life — his very existence on this Earth? It was but a minor wound, an additional cut of which his punishment was comprised.

A green-gloved hand rested upon the sill of a window, its owner gazing out at the desolation before him — a graveyard of tree trunks, dirt, and nothing more, save for the stray beaten path and deadly chasm. A very painful and exhausted sigh escaped his lips, dancing out of his mouth to mingle with the poisoned air. He had done this…. He had seen to the destruction that lay at his feet; had given birth to it; had fed it, month after month and year after year. And for what purpose?

It had been three weeks since the Lorax had lifted himself up into the air — three long, miserable sets of mornings and evenings, each less pleasant than the last. And yet here he stood. Useless. Unworthy of sorrow or pity. If either had been given to him, he would have refused it — discarded it along with compassion, or else willed it be donated to a soul who had actually earned it.

He breathed in the sour smell that tainted the air, coughing a little as the bitter taste scratched and bit at his lungs. Sliding his hands off of the windowsill, he walked over to a study table… and sat down at the only chair that occupied it. He sniffed… and pummeled a fist angrily into the table, his teeth gritted and his eyes shut tight. A hitch in his breathing. He unsuccessfully tried to stifle it. Another hitch. A third… and the tears began to flow. If he had meant to cry, why hadn't done it weeks ago? Perhaps the heartless took longer to break. It was only fitting.

For a full ten minutes he cried, his efforts to stem the flow during that time unfruitful. There was no point — not in remorse, not in showing emotion, not in even existing anymore, and as much as his conscience whispered that such things were not so, another part of him forever claimed dominance.

Dominance…. Yes. Dominance over his thoughts, his emotions, his mind….

He stopped crying and sat up, a constricted sniff escaping him as he slowly turned his head to look in the direction of a cupboard by his bed. It was still in there, ready and waiting….

Standing up, the chair scrapping back noisily as he did so, he made for the cupboard, opening up the top drawer and pulling out what one would only describe as the last resort. It was almost haunting how calmly he ran his fingers over the smooth surface of the barrel, or how tenderly he knelt down on his knees to face the window. One would almost think he was about to pray, or, perhaps, to beg for mercy.

He cocked the weapon. The click resounded throughout the small, stuffy room, causing him to flinch despite himself. He was scared. He was deathly scared, but he could see no other way — no other rhyme or reason to end this chronic lullaby; this tragedy he had sown and knitting for him, stitch by stitch.

With trembling hands, he placed the barrel to his temple, the desolate valley being the last thing he ever set his eyes upon.

"Forgive me," he whispered shakily. "Forgive me…."