After much assistance from minniepuck and khalling, as well as a critical article shared by sdesapio, I have finished my short story.

Regret

The repeating words hurt the man as they echoed in his mind. He laid in the darkness of the room, hearing the words over and over, wishing they would stop. His chest pumped up and down faster and more often. If he weren't physically unable, he would raise, get a phone, and call for help. He wanted peace. He would do anything to sleep. He did not want to die, not now. Could he scratch all the mistakes of his wasteful past and get a fresh start?

If he could do it all again, he wouldn't be in this plight at a young age of 58. He wanted family. He wished for a mulligan of his career. He desired any sort of happiness, even if it were only a split second of satisfaction. He craved the love he never earned. He yearned for achievement. He requested to any being, physical or mystical, a new life.

The man began to cry not only in sadness, but more in pain. It pained to see glimpses of his past—the career that never blossomed, the relationships that ended in hatred, the failures that were never corrected. He wouldn't settle for any other field of talent, because he wanted to be the best in the music industry. The countless hours recording music in his homemade booth in the closet—the endless nights spent intimately with women he could not recall or even recognize today—the empty bottles and cans littered through his home—the bowls filled with nothing more than burnt residue. His life's actions brought him mental suffering.

He chased his friends off, blaming them for his career never rocketing. His father and mother passed away without receiving appreciation for the sacrifices they made. Instead he showed them anger and disappointment that his every wish wasn't granted by them. With no woman to whom he shared vows with, he wished he hadn't used women as nothing more than sexual satisfactions. He had no children or grandchildren that he could smile at in admiration of their playfulness.

He lay with agonizing pain stemming from his heart, yet the visions of failure were more painful. If he could go back in time and change not one thing—but everything. He would make the most of each opportunity. He would be successful and choose a career that would solidify him financially. The perfect mirror of himself and his values would be his wife. He would have used his mind to store knowledge, and not have choose to neglect the power of thinking. In place of mooching, he would be a producer—earning his own wealth.

The words bounced off the walls of his mind a final time. Everything became silent and he felt the disappointment. His chest ceased to move. For the first time, he blamed only himself. His eyes moved around, seeing no one. With a final breath, the man spoke his last words, “Sacrifice what you are now for what you will become.”