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Caution – heavy subject.

 

I saw him, and it was like my mind could not make sense of the shapes in front of me. The room, half lit, the couch dragged across so it blocked the entrance to the kitchen. A slight creaking sound that reverberated through my mind. The smell of whiskey and tobacco with a coppery undertone.

And him.  Standing in front of the couch, wearing a blue flannel shirt, jeans and black socks.  His head at an odd angle, a mottled colour, eyes rolled back.  Not real, not real, not real.  The beam above his head creaking, smooth blue nylon rope with red and white flecks looped around it.

I’ll always wonder, how long did it take?  What was his last thought?  Did he pray?  Did he regret putting that noose around his neck the second after he jumped off the couch?

It couldn’t be, it wouldn’t work, because his feet are touching the ground.  Because he was alive 3 days ago.  Because I was about to drive him to the hospital.  Walk carefully towards him, reach for his hand, recoil at the coldness.

Last night, lying next to him, him stroking my face, me asking him why?  Him saying what I already knew, I was sick babe.  Running my hands over his stomach, him whispering, be gentle babe, scar tissue from the post- mortem.

Is it any wonder I wake myself up crying?

x

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