She had often talked of taking her own life, but no one had ever believed that it was anything more than talk. She herself had never contemplated it seriously, only in fleeting moments of rage or of despair. Her dramatic side would splurge and reveal to others her inner most thoughts and fears, always regretting her actions after the moment of drama had passed. With her, it was difficult to know what was fact and what was fiction, the two were most often intertwined at some vital point.
The family mourned her death, whilst friends quoted poems and read from copies of her favourite plays, for they knew she would have liked it that way. All this was done whilst she watched from above, laughing.
They did not know anything of the woman-nay, child- who was found, knife plunged into her chest, dead on the kitchen floor. They knew not what drove her to such an act of horror. Was it a broken heart? Was it loneliness? Was it...? Could they not simply believe that where fact and fiction had intertwined, so too had life and death? For due to a lack of purpose in the living she had wanted to look beyond, if there was such an existance. To cease and to keep living had become one and the same in that moment. To place a knife in her heart was no greater an effort than cleaning that knife and placing it back into a drawer in which it so orderly belonged.
Copyright 1988, Paranoid gal.
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