Fragment #35 - Memories.

My mobile calls out, telling me about a new text message. It's from Jen. I have to say that breaking up with Pete may have been the best thing she could have done but it's left me in the position of having my phone's inbox pretty much spammed with random shit all the time.
I open the wee flip thingy that I live in terror of breaking and take a sigh before reading. “good bye, I'm sorry.”
Strange, Very strange indeed. Normally her messages are about three pages long and read like a Jane Austin novel which is to say that they make no sense whatsoever.
I try calling her back but only get the answering service, This worries me somewhat. I shake off my bedclothes, grab a towel and wander through to the shower. The water runs over my skin and I pay no attention to it. My thoughts are with that message. What could she mean by “I'm sorry” The “good bye” is a trifle odd too. Perhaps she's run away.

I make my way into the kitchen with the towel round my waist in search of good nutritious coffee and a nice healthy cigarette. But I'm still distracted. “good bye” It's beginning to worry me now, thoughts in the back of my mind are niggling away at my consciousness, things she's said, the way she's acted over the past week.
I decide to go and see her, after a sandwich.

The walk up to her house is plagued with those same worries. I keep telling myself that everything is fine and that she's just pissed off to a warehouse rave without telling me, but I don't believe it.
The streets seem strangely quieter today than normal, the loudest sound ringing in my ears is the cries of the Herring Gulls above me, a feeling of mild dread starts to seep in.

The streets are drying out in the sun after the rain, dark and light patches beneath my feet as I quicken my pace. The feeling dread has manifested itself fully in my mind. I'm only one street away so I decide against running and just step up my pace once again.

Her front door is green and slightly faded, the paint peeling away where a decade or more of rain has seeped in. I press the bell.
No answer. I knock the door.
No answer. I shout through the letterbox.
No answer.
I lift the welcome mat and find the key put there for the general convenience of burglars and drunken losses.
I hesitate before opening the door. But I shake it off and decide that I have to find out if she's all
right. I know she would understand.
There is a smell in her hallway. It's always been there and nobody to date has figured out what it is. I walk over the deep pile carpet calling her name as I go. I look in the living room and find that the Tv is still on but on mute, images flickering away in silence. I ignore it and make my way to the kitchen. I pause before opening the door, I can hear the blood racing through my ears pounding out a tattoo. Nothing.
My heart sinks further as I walk over the hall towards her room. I imagine she would be more than a little pissed off if she was just having a snooze and was woken up by me.

The floor before her door is wet. There is a tinge in the air that I can't quite recognise over the general piquancy of the air. I open the door.

The smell of excrement an urine fills my nose and my eyes are assaulted with the sight. There she is, her red hair shimmering in the dull light of the curtained windows, her fine figure straight as a rod, dangling. Her face is swollen and blue from the rope round her neck, eyes scrunched up in pain. In the movies you see someone hanged and it looks dignified. But that's the sanitised version. When you hang yourself you loose bladder and bowel control, you twist your face in a contortion of pain and you hang there like that till some poor fucker finds you. I run over holding her legs which are still warm, trying in vain to stop what has already happened.

I wake up with a start, sheets soaking in sweat and my entire body shaking. I look about me in the dark room and my body starts to convulse with dry sobs, each moan from my chest feels like my heart trying to rip itself out. Tears will not come, I have none left anymore.