Jack sat on the floor of his modest apartment and looked over the notes he had made over the last eight years of his work. He considered himself an artist and this his master peace. So much information, so many different experiments, yet still no answers. The longer his search went on the harder he had worked, the more daring he had become. But still the answers to his questions were no closer to revealing themselves to him. He was on the ultimate treasure hunt, the ultimate quest. He wanted happiness. A fulfilment that could lift him from the state of despair that had taken refuse in his very soul. His search gave him purpose, and the thrill of finally finding that which he searched for gave him the reason to get out of bed every morning. It drove him, powered him. But now after eight years he was beginning to question that an end was in sight.
Jack had killed many people. He was only about half way through his meticulous notes and he was already up to fourteen people. If he had to guess he would say the final figure would be close to twenty-five. All in different countries around the world, different continents, cities and towns. But he was no closer to the truth from when he had began his search. He figured that if he found a person who was truly happy, truly glad to be alive and teaming with hope that he could take that from them in their final moments. He watched them die, slowly and painfully waiting for their energy, their emotions to be transmitted to him. He wanted to steal this from them.
Jack had killed men and woman without remorse, for his search was greater then the life he was taking, to him it was certainly more important. He had killed those with successful careers, the rich and powerful. But gained nothing from them in their last moments in this life. He had taken the lives of family men who he had watched playing with their children on a Christmas morning. They had looked so rich in life. He had killed single woman and men who partied hard at the weekend. So many people, so many people with so many different things in their lives that they cherished. But still he found that he could not take that feeling from them.
Jack knew that he had power. He could decide who would live and who would die. He selected his targets very carefully. He wasn't interested in anyone with doubts in their own life. Only the people that thought they had all that life had to offer. For the first time in eight years he wondered if his search would bear the fruits he desired. His was not an easy life. Although he had come a custom to pain and suffering he gave others he didn't enjoy it in anyway. His goal was what allowed him to do what he did, he took no satisfaction from the act itself.
The hours passed and Jack finally finished his notes. Worthless all of them. He tossed the last stack of papers across the room knocking over a cold cup of coffee in the process. He considered the similarities to that now spilt cup and his own life. He was finished with, he was spilt. Nothing could warm him now, he had nothing more to offer. His search was over and so was his life. Jack put the gun to his head and wondered if he could find peace in wherever he found himself once the trigger was pulled. He hoped it would be a better place than this. And with that thought he ended his search and with it his own pain.