Target: Frank Baker. Male. Thirty-five. Married. Two Children- seven and five. Physical Condition- gym five days/week. Average set of associates and subset of close friends on two separate social media sites.

Charlie swishes the Original Recipe Tennessee Honey Whiskey around his tongue, dissecting the sweet flavor of Frank Baker's favorite drink. This is his third glass- on the rocks, as Frank would have it. He studies the hundreds of pictures and posts he has managed to garner from Frank's social media sites, now analyzing the man himself as the whiskey flushes his face and burns his gut. The smiling face and crinkled green eyes of Jenna, his wife, stare back at him. His children, beautiful, young and full of energy leap and frolic, joke and laugh, star in plays and recitals all laid open on the screen in front of him. Frank, what would you do if all this were gone? How would you feel? Could you carry on? I think not!

Charlie sets the glass down and pulls out his knife. It's small with a tiny blade, but always up to the task for tonight's work. Some killers use guns, some knives, others use explosions or even strangulation. Charlie prefers poison- straight to the heart. So he sharpens his tool to a fine point and settles in for the final act of making this target disappear.

Head thick with whiskey, heart heavy with impending task, Charlie again looks at the cornucopia of photos and videos of Frank's private life on display. He deletes the most artistic and thoughtful pictures of his family first, feeling more and more desperate to finish as he goes. His gut wrenches. Throat burns. This life he has chosen sometimes seems so full of despair. This is when he knows it is time. He feels the shift in perspective. Suddenly at another desk looking through different eyes, he presses the fine point down and begins.

*****************************************

"Details?"

"Male, mid thirties, deceased; found by wife at midnight."

"Cause?"

"Still working on that one. No marks on body. Heavy drinking, pill bottle next to the desk. Looks like an overdose, but we won't know til the ME can get in here. Possible note on the desk, but we left it for you."

"Forced entry?"

"No, Sir."

"Let me see the note."

The note is in strong, dark pencil strokes. Tears blur some of the words, but they are all legible.

*******************************************

I'm so sorry.
Life is too sad. Too hard. I have nothing and no one to live for.
My family was my life. Without them my life means nothing. Forgive me for
what I've done.
                                                   Frank Baker.

*********************************************

Charlie places the now dull pencil down on the desk, snapping back into his own head like a fresh rubber band. The deed is done. He wipes the errant tears from his face. He wonders who his next suicide target will be. Sticks and stones may break your bones, friend ... but my words will kill you.