The letter part 2
The reservoir was giving off steam at this time in the morning, the vapour rising lazily and creating a cloud that collected a few inches over the water. The cicadas were still chirping, not having stopped all day, their incessant noise in crescendo with the lapping of the water against its banks. Several yellow stones, smoothed after years of harsh weather gave out a heat that burnt the touch of anything that brushed past it. The humidity had caught a toad unawares, having crawled too far away from the safety of water to get back its drying body was flaking by the side of the path that led to the car park.
Sunlight burned already through the bottle of Jack Daniels concentrating in one point just off to the side of the sandstones. A twig caught in the focal point was smoking gently, having burned out a couple of hours before, being in the middle of a stone path nothing had caught light, although were a gust of wind to blow that small insignificant piece of wood towards the brush there would be hell to pay.
Sirens played out their screams in the distance, hungry and attacking as the vehicles like slavering wolves came rushing up the path, screeching to a halt a couple of yards away from the bottle. People exploded out of the vehicle as if they were little back bullets, the sweat on their uniforms giving away the rush, despite the air conditioning in the ambulance and the police car. Voices were everywhere, panic was spreading; a suit, shirt and tie were neatly laid out together as if waiting for a suitcase to put them in.
It’s the pain. I can’t get away from the pain. I don’t know if it is in my mind or actually in my body any more, it’s a fantasy played out in my head where colours and noise all make an enormous black scribble together that bock out even you. Even your face twists and turns into something I can’t take.
I have watched the end so many times, I have watched people fight, I have watched them swim against a tide that they can no longer control, but I’m going to do just that. I’m in control now – no one else.
Cliché is all we have left – I could creak on, use one hundred words that have already been written a thousand times by authors much better at expressing their feelings than I.
I am not going to.
You make the things you deserve, you deserve the things you have made, and finally I have made a decision. It has only taken me nearly seventy years to take, but I have taken it. At times I loved you and at others I could have wrung your neck, now it isn’t going to be anyone’s problem any more – especially not mine.
The body floated in the water, a pill box in one hand, dressed in nothing but a knowing smile.