My mother killed herself last night, I know this much to be true. Yet, when I stare at her corpse in the corner of my study, it’s rotting.
I’m writing this before making my next decision. A monologue of this fearful man laid out before a live audience who will not answer until it is far too late.
As I look to my left I can see my reflection in the mirror on the backside of my door. I still look sane; a passerby would wish me a good morning with no second thought on their way to breakfast.
I cannot see the sun yet, it’s far too early for this. The light is wanting to reach over the roofs of this town but, as of now, it’s only power is the shimmer beginning to form on the water droplets of my window.
This woman killed herself last night, I know this much to be true. Yet, when I stare at her corpse in the corner of my study, it’s rotting.
I’ve thought of following her footsteps. Hers are much easier to walk in than those of whatever is creaking the floorboards in the hallway.
I have a revolver, it has a name engraved on it yet I cannot remember who’s. It’s sitting in her hands still, eons away from my place in this seat.
There’s been a knock on the door twice tonight. It isn’t locked and I have no business I’m trying to hide, yet they won’t allow themselves in.
Something terrible happened to this woman last night. I know this much to be true. Yet, when I stare at her corpse in the corner of my study, it’s rotting.
The sun has steeped into the horizon. This is my mistake, I thought it to be a sunrise, not a sunset. Twilight lingers longer than I’d like it to.
The sound of breathing, other than my own, keeps pushing into my ears. I keep checking the corpse but it’s chest stays still. There’s been another knock at the door.
This isn’t my house. I’m not sure what building I’m in right now. It must be a hotel because I keep hearing the floorboards creak. I’ve thought of grabbing the revolver.
There’s been a corpse in this room since last night. I know this much to be true. Yet, when I stare at it in the corner of my study, it’s rotting.
I’ve made the arduous journey to the revolver and found the engraved name. “For my boy, Steven.” Whoever gave this pistol to Steven must have cared a great deal for him.
There’s been a knock on the door four times tonight. I locked the door when I grabbed the revolver. The floorboards have grown louder since I’ve shut them out.
The corpse is staring at me. I heard the breathing once more and when I checked the body, it shifted its gaze to match mine, I know this. I’ve grown too afraid to let go of the revolver even for a moment. Should there be another knock at the door I don’t know what-
The sun is rising.
I killed myself last night. I know this much to be true. Yet, when I look at myself in the mirror on the backside of my door, it’s…