He’d felt it was more often reported that they were found in the garage. He could understand despite the perceived position of desperation there was still a compassionate consideration by the victim for the victims. That by occurring in a less prominent place in the property it may help with any healing process for those left behind.
Personally, he’d never viewed it as a position of desperation. It was just something that happened. Started by the changing of a bulb at half time on a Saturday afternoon. Mary and April, mother and daughter, shopping. He was settled on the couch physically, emotionally work kept intruding on the football updates worrying him irrationally. Early January the light was fading, the bulb in the ceiling had blown earlier. He’d promised her he’d replace it. Using the break in play he nipped through the kitchen to the integral garage.
It began with a flicker of a thought, a fusion, garage roof girders and the old towing rope lying in the corner. He dismissed it, collected a bulb from the curver box under the bench. His hand refused to turn the switch of until he had another glance. Reminding him he’d had the thought.
Sleep evaded him, early on Sunday morning he was up, put on the percolator. Waiting he was drawn from the kitchen, the thought beginning to manifest as a deed. In the corner of the garage handling the old tow rope, familiarising himself with the feel, the pattern of the thinner ropes which entwined to strengthen the whole. It felt comfortable, he returned it to its place reassured it was safe there in full view. His secret and his secret place when no one else was around. His mind felt abused, his brain battered, under the pressure of daily life. But all was not lost. He’d found somewhere he had control, where he could design an escape. Not that he would ever need it he strongly reminded himself, but the thought felt okay. Just handy to have around.
The process continued. The visits requiring greater input for sufficient gratification. Addiction came to mind with a little extra fix. He’d been lucky once, caught grasping the roof girders, he’d managed to deflect it as pull ups. The added excitement of deception. It became a game. He’d had the rope over the girder by now but there was no rush, the phrase “slowly slowly catchy monkey” seemed to offer comfort at this lethargic approach. The further he went the stronger he felt. He was defeating the things that were oppressing him. The total secrecy only enhanced his feeling of power. It also reduced the pressure.
He was insulating himself from the atrocity he was constructing by befriending it. The noose had been assembled and dismantled fearlessly on several occasions. He’d tried it for size. If you didn’t fear death, there was nothing greater to worry about. It felt okay round his neck.
Saturday afternoon, full time, Mary and April, mother and daughter, shopping. He rose from the couch. The equipment, girder, rope, noose and finally the upturned curver box. As he pulled the box from under the bench the bulb blew in the garage. Suddenly in the dark a feeling of loneliness mixed with the enormity of what he’d been about to do filled the moment.
Then joyful voices chorused, “ we’re home.”
His fear returned, and he quickly made for the kitchen.
Don Russell 29/01/2018