The CD is on repeat, the bottle of scotch half empty. The ashtray overflowing, the candles almost out.
He’s sitting, almost lying, on the floor, head slumped on the table, glass in one outstretched hand.
A knife lies close by, it’s blade dulled by a veneer of congealing blood. Blood that has spread from the tracks on his wrist to the rug on the floor and the papers that lie abandoned atop it. Violent scribbles barely visible, the angry strokes covered by the claret shroud.
The song begins again…
It’s daylight when they come. It’s been three days and only now has someone thought to report him missing.
The scene that greets them is one they’ve seen countless times before.
The evidence is bagged, the body photographed. Forensic and police swarm like flies.
The song begins again…
All is quiet now, tape seals the door, a man in a uniform stands on guard.
The room is silent; nothing remains to show what went on here.
Under the rug lies a piece of paper, undiscovered. It bears just five words, ‘I fucked it up again’.
I Grieve... 