Creative Outlet

She followed him up the stairs.
"John. Speak to me." He turned around. His face was pale and wan in the moonlight. She could see the lines beginning to grow on his forehead and under his eyes. Not laugh lines, but worry lines. His clothes hung on his gaunt frame as they would on a clothes line. Tears began rolling down her cheeks involuntaryily. He turned around and continued climbing the stairs. "John, you can't do this," she sobbed. He did not even turn around this time. She started hiccuping like a child, and sat down to weep on the cold steps.
The gunshot made her jump and cry out in anguish at the cold moon.
Up in the attic, John was slumped over in his favorite chair, blood pooling from his temple. In his limp hand was clutched his prized revolver. In his skull, the tumor shuddered and died as his brain did.

Note: I'm not in a very cheery mood, just in case you haven't noticed.

Here's something to make you feel better: