- The following write-up is a work of fiction. It is the first in a series of fictional short stories and creative writing exercises inspired by the photos and the exploration experience of a given location. The subject matter is by no means representative of the actual homes or the real life former inhabitants. The first few write-ups in this series will be written in the form of letters and notes. This first post in the series is titled 'The Suicide Note'.
The Suicide Note
To whom it may concern,
I am sorry. Sorry that loneliness overwhelms. Sorry that life itself is just the opposite. Sorry that I couldn't muster the strength to repeat another day of this. Sorry that I couldn't put in 8 more hours. Sorry that I couldn't wipe the snow from the wind shield and fill the tank and eat another plastic wrapped microwave dinner and jerk off to this same old porn and get drunk and groom myself and pretend to care and watch one more evening of reality tv shows and hockey games.
Sorry that I couldn't find the desire to want something, anything. I never stopped trying, I assure you.
I'm sorry. Sorry that you had to find me like this. I'm writing to you because I have no one else left in this world. You are the only one that ever stops by, and if it wasn't for junk mail, maybe I'd never be found. My cunt boss wouldn't even notice me missing, surely. My co-workers won't miss a beat either, talking over each other incessantly. All of them talking, none of them listening.
Our friends all eventually stopped calling after Natalie died. I haven't been the same since, granted. Why would they bother to continue calling, just to share in my misery and apathy? I understand that they decided to distance themselves from me, hell I've been doing the same.
I'm sitting on Sophie's bed writing this. I want my last moments to be with her, or as close to my memories of her as possible. I miss her so much. I bet you remember her. You may not remember her playing outside, or the way her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, or her boisterous laugh, or her poetic sense of humour, or her generosity and kindness. But you remember the media reports and the trial and the corruption that went unchecked when the man that murdered an eight year old girl whilst drunk driving was found not guilty on a technicality. That is the sort of thing a mail man remembers happening on his rural route. That is the sort of thing everyone remembers. I can't stop remembering, even when I try.
She died on the road out front of the house, a mere matter of metres from where you will find me hanging. Five days a week your feet pass over the exact spot her body landed on the side of the road. You pay that fact no mind, a luxury I don't have. I think of her every time I see you.
Losing Soph killed my wife, it took a few years, but it killed her. Natalie never recovered, not in the slightest. She never returned to work. She stopped cleaning the house and shopping for food and helping on the farm. She barely ever left the house, or for that matter, even got out of bed, with the exception of her monthly doctors visit to refill her prescriptions. Our relationship turned bitter quickly thereafter. Not that I didn't make an attempt to be caring and supportive, but I refused to be her drug mule. Within months the doctors had her addicted to an ever increasing quantity of opiates and whatever else they were spoon feeding her for their kickbacks from their corporate pharmaceutical bosses. Her death seemed just another day in comparison to Sophies.
A few more years have passed now. More of the same. Another mundane stretch of time.
Alone, so very alone.
The rooms of this house, each and every one of them, they make me cry. Every single day. The memories are the most difficult thing to live with, but they are also the only reason I've held on this long.
Again, I'm sorry that I put you in this position stranger. I wanted to die here, where I once was actually alive. I couldn't fathom decomposing dangling from a rope in the basement forever. It had to be this way unfortunately, so that I could be put to rest.
If there is an after life, reuniting with Sophie will hopefully and ironically restore me back to life. If not, I'm grateful that this is all finally over.
- Thank you for continuing to follow my adventures, especially now as I attempt to broaden my delivery approach and introduce new styles of fictional short stories into the repertoire. While it flowed out of me naturally and effortlessly, this one was rather tough to write. I actually shed tears a few times as I tried to identify with the character that I was creating as I wrote his suicide note, and invented his back story and family and so on. This series will continue and appear periodically interspersed amongst future posts. The second fictional write-up in this SS series will be in letter form, and will be titled "A Love Letter'.
Again, this was a work of fiction inspired by the photos, and is not in any way representative of the real life former inhabitants of the home.
An Estate sale for the late Earl Finch (the actual former resident) took place here in December of 2006 and Earl's possessions were sold off.
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