The words over at Three Word Wednesday are descent, kill, surreal.
She tried to change, really revolutionize herself, but the resolutions all came and went in fits and starts. Nothing quite stuck.
Self-help books were selected with gusto, then left on flat surfaces in her flat to collect dust, their pages still bookstore fresh.
Journals were begun with surreal confessions and professions of faith, in her tiny scrawl, only to be abandoned after maybe a scribbled page or two.
And that’s why people ignored her increasingly dark banter, the Facebook updates that contained words like stalking and stabbing. They chalked it up to her dry humor, thinking it was another in-between phase and tomorrow would bring another decree, maybe promises to try self-hypnotism or a water-and-grapefruit diet.
Who kills themselves with over-the-counter pain medication, anyway?
They all asked themselves this at the wake, which they all agreed was well-attended for all of its suddenness and despite the lateness of the season and poor weather conditions.
And as the coffee grew cold and the last of the ham had been wrapped, the bread secured in plastic baggies and everyone agreed it all should go to the food pantry, did it occur to them what had really taken place. They’d been witness to the descent, yet never stepped in to stop it.
Most just shrugged their shoulders, refreshing in their own minds their struggles, their stress.
It was another phase, they all agreed, like the time she decided to give her life over to animal rescue efforts, or that other time where she bought hundreds of dollars of paints and canvas, thinking she’d excise her demons through art.
Nobody dies from over-the-counter pain meds, do they?