Lucifer's Fall is a novel I intend to publish in book form. As such, I won't be posting the entire story. Presented here are the opening chapters. Enjoy.

On the final night of his life, Charles Volker went through the motions of putting the finishing touches on his latest and final novel. He knew that he was only going through the motions because this novel, like all his others, would never be published. He also knew that this would be his final novel because on this night he planned to carry out his own execution. The world was too horrible a place and he was one of the many horrible things about it; he knew this to be true. His self-execution would be his way of escaping the world's horrors and at the same time making it a slightly better place.

Inside his dark, damp, cramped apartment, Charles sat at his desk proofreading the final page of his final novel. Deciding there was nothing on it he wanted to change, he put the final page in place with the others, clipped them together, and laid them to the left of his aged writing machine.

He pushed himself away from his desk, stood, and stepped over to what he considered his liquor cabinet, but which was actually the plumbing area beneath his kitchen sink. From amidst various household soaps and cleaning utensils, he pulled out a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon.

"A fine drink," he said to himself looking at the bottle.

"A fine final drink," he said as he firmly placed the bottle down on the desk to the right of the typewriter. He had always celebrated the completion of a novel by downing a bottle of top-shelf liquor, usually bourbon, and he saw no reason why tonight should be an exception.

"I'm going to get drunk if it's the last thing I do," he joked to himself.

He opened the top side drawer of the desk, reached in among the pens, clips and white-out, and withdrew both a one-ounce shot glass and a bottle of sleeping pills prescribed to him recently, ostensibly to fight insomnia.

"The will to live is a form of insomnia," he said, imagining such an argument could seem reasonable if put to the prescribing doctor, should Charles ever have to answer for the action he was about to take.

But then he realized that such a thought was silly. He was going to do this right and there would be no further arguments to ever again be concerned about. There would be no further arguments or agreements, debates or discussions. He was going to perform his last action in life and there was no one who was going to deprive him of the privilege. He had told no one and so no one knew. Few would care. This thought did not disturb him because by now he had convinced himself that relationships only made one want to stay in an all-too-painful world. With no ties to bind one to the world, an exit was made appropriately easier. So Charles' thoughts ran.

He sat down at his desk and put another sheet of paper in the typewriter. He paused a second, took in and let out a deep breath, and then went into action. He grabbed the bottle of tranquilizers, shook a couple into his hand and arced them into his mouth. No sooner were they on his tongue when he was filling his shot glass. He tossed it back and gulped down the pill/bourbon combination. He then typed a line, slowly and cautiously, with methodically hard hits on the keys. He shook out two more tablets, popped them and chased them with another shot. He hit return and then typed another line, this time very quickly. He repeated the process of chasing pills with shots and typing lines in between until all the pills and most of the bourbon were gone. He pulled his completed suicide note from the machine and folded it, sloppily, into a plain white envelope. He sealed the envelope and slipped it, unaddressed, inside the front cover of the finished manuscript. He then took the bourbon bottle by its neck and began to stand, but fell back in his chair. He groaned, grunted, and then muttered, "Oh well, it's as good a place to die as any."

He poured out the last shot of bourbon, holding the bottle until the last drop that could possibly fall fell.

"I believe a toast is in order," he announced to the room. He put the bottle down on the desk and raised the shot glass in his right hand.

"Oh, ye gods and goddesses, muses and fates, seraphim and cherubim, spirits and gremlins: Hear my final words! I hereby resign this cruel and stupid game, a game I cannot win because I am not really one of the competitors, but one of the pieces. Yes, one of the pieces being moved this way and that, prodded into wandering from debacle to debacle, disaster to disaster, and disappointment to disappointment. And now... ultimately, tragically, and miserably... to death. I go with the sincerest hope that death is final. It sickens me to think that I may live again and give you yet another chance to have your sick way with me."

"But at least you won't be able to kill me your way," he went on. No guts on the floor, no brains splattered on the walls, no violent mutilations. I go peacefully. And honorably. And knowing full well when the end comes. It comes now because I say it must."

Still holding up the shot, but with his right elbow resting on the desk, Charles nodded, then looked up to try to focus his blurring vision, but then realized it was pointless, and went on.

"There's nothing here that I regret leaving behind, except for my writings: my ideas and thoughts preserved on paper. They were the main source of what little pleasure I derived from the world. Trouble is... they were never able to bring pleasure to anyone else. They probably would have, but they never got past the publishers. Fucking publishers!"

At this, he doused the back of his throat with his last shot. He swallowed, squinted, and sank back into his chair with his eyes closed, but continued to speak, less and less coherently, to the empty room.

"Fucking polickally correct publishers... afraid of offending ev'ryone... this group, that group... bunchapussies... 'fraid of scaring people... 'fraid of telling people the painful truth... Fuck'em, the people don't deserve the truth... and they don't deserve me."