That's the problem with a suicide's room. Draughts. The place is foxed
with cracks and crevices. The world filters in at every turn, from
floor to ceiling, smuggling whispers, traffic, seasons.
A suicide's room is deception. On the surface it's all lockets and
secret diaries, keepsakes and sealed letters, but look closely and you
see it's been pawed by the world.
Someone left open too many windows.
And doors -- the whole place was shattered by what was going on
outside. It's more like a deserted shack someone found, a chalet on the
edge of a beach, gone brittle on the inside, everything worn to
scallops by the sea's long hush.
The occupant's gone and it's no wonder when you consider. For the
record whoever lived here dressed the place up with foreknowledge.
Tatty postcards. Never-washed sheets. Suitcases, half-filled,
half-empty. Books left open half-read. Annotated skirting boards,
driftwood on the mantle piece.
On a morning nobody noted this former tenant left behind their wrist
watch, the semblance of their reflection in the mirror, a miniature
bookmark lost amidst the pages of an epic, a purified tongue-stud, and
like a faithless lover, this ex-resident stepped outside.