Suicide was inevitable, we were born for each other. But how to, crawling through my years. Not what method, exactly: I can’t stomach blood. Poison, maybe – but that might look like suicide: that’s the problem. It would shame my devout mother, mortify my wife (as if, she had failed me), damage my children – bless my beautiful children.
Tonight, I’ll pick-up the new light fitting. It’s dark. It’s icy. The barrier’s being repaired. Who could ever know that I intended to skid the car off the high bridge, the accident black spot. Terrible bad luck, they will say. Drowned. Oh, beads of sweat! Well, they see an owl not a mole – directionless, painfully blindly crawling through blackness, ingesting muck, choking …
I wonder, how many others through history faked suicide? I bet some were lucky: right place right time: plane crash: sweet suicidal serendipity. … Some, push a loved one all the way, daily, relentlessly with the minutia until, silent rupture. That’s not a brave suicide, that’s not smart.
What about you, my anonymous reader: a mole looking for the way? Delete this. In an hour I’ll text them: back in a jiffy, gone for new light.