The suicide of Margaret

Philip Lorca diCorcia, Untitled

In a few hours, she’d be gone. This painful sentence turned without interruption in her head, without ever taking a concrete form. It meant nothing. They were just random words, and they wanted to destroy her. For the time being, she was there. She felt the weight of her body sinking into the hotel’s cozy bed. They had assigned her room 13. It was a stroke of fate. But she was not superstitious. Margaret had chosen her destiny with lucidity, without fear and without regret. What could she regret about her dreary and empty life, without friends, children, or husband ? Margaret’s husband had died ten years earlier. She was now old ; her short, cut white hair and the frilled dressing gown she was wearing betrayed her age, like the wrinkles that now marked her tired face.

Her two sons wanted to convince her to go into a nursing home. To end her life like that, she who had traveled the world without release, in search of a meaning, or a treasure that she discovered at each port. How could she have endured the slow and monotonous rhythm of an old people’s home : playing cards, eating daily meals, never raising her voice, always remaining polite, obeying... She had never obeyed anyone, Margaret ; she had always chosen in her existence, and did not believe in fate. Her end would therefore be in her image : free and original. Of a chilling originality.

She watched the calm sea and waited patiently for her hour. She felt no fear. She had faced lions and tigers, famine and epidemics, cold, drought and thirst, storms and frozen desert nights. The sea could never have frightened her. It had been her ally for 40 long years. It always promised extraordinary discoveries. Behind the waves and whirlpools, something unknown awaited her. And this prospect aroused her far more than the dull faces of the old people waiting for death to come and take them without warning. Margaret had decided to call death, to summon her to her bedside ; and death, in a short time, would come to the appointment. Because no one had ever disobeyed Margaret.

In the soberly furnished hotel room, the television looped the images of the hurricane that was devastating the state of New York and approached dangerously close to Manhattan. Margaret had studied the path of the tornado and had booked a room in the most exposed hotel in the city. The institution was now empty. The receptionist himself had deserted the premises. He tried to convince Margaret to follow him, but she refused. She must be crazy, he said to himself.

Margaret’s farewell was not a lament, a complaint or a reproach to the world. It was not a spectacle for men, as were most suicides. No one would know that she had chosen to kill herself. Her children will think of an accident, and will never feel guilty about her disappearance. The sea, the sweet and dreadful sea, would bury her body in secret. Between the two, the union would finally be complete, hidden from the shameless gaze of the world.

Mitia

Escape Game, part 4

The inside one

 

So much noise. It smells fear. It smells like the rabbit I hunted before. Little human seems not to be happy. I can hear it breathing loudly. I can hear .. Mom said that sometimes, I could hear humans. Some dogs of our family can. It comes from our ancestors, the wolves. She used to call it old instinct. It never happened to me so far. I'm still a puppy. 

Still a puppy, yes, but it's not the first time that I could see little humans in this car. The smell is everywhere. I'm so small, hidden under a seat, they never saw me the way I can see them. Tall man is bad, he hit me when I tried to be nice to the first one I saw. He scares me. I don't know the other one. She completely ignored me. I am nothing. 

I am hungry. I am cold. Night is coming, I can feel it, even in the darkness of the car. It's even colder where we are going, in this place where there is nothing but sand and rocks. Nights are so cold, I need tall man for the warming fire, and for the food he gives me sometimes, or I could die. Mom told me to stay with him, to do whatever he asks me to do, if I want to stay alive.

So I stayed. So many times I heard little humans screaming and crying, while I was hidden under the car. The smell of their fear, of their tears, of their blood, almost drove me crazy. When the sun rises, tall man takes them away, somewhere, carrying them on his shoulders. They seem so tiny, so fragile, compared to him. He comes back alone. No friend for the puppy. 

 Crédit image La Vallée de l'ombre de la mort, Roger Fenton

I followed tall man, once. I'm so small, he didn't see me. I followed his smell, and the smell of little human. I saw him digging and putting little human in a big hole. He put rocks on it. I could see many amounts of rocks around us. So many I couldn't count them. I'm just a puppy.

This little human is strange. I don't hear the voice outside, I hear it in my head. Help, it says. I can see images of other humans, big ones and little ones. Little human talks to me, but doesn't look at me. Look at me, little human. Look at me. I'm not that small. Mom told me, when you hear a human, you're a grown up. You are connected with this human, and it's the only one you have to listen to. And it will listen to you too. 

I'm listening. Help, little human said. I must help. But I can't speak. Tall man could hear. Please, little human, hear me. I will help, I promise. You won't join the others in the sand and the rocks. 

Hear me, little human. I am no puppy anymore. 

Sasha

A Goblin in the Library

Once upon a time, Elisabeth was in the library with her mother. Her mother was sitting in a couch, reading, while Elisabeth was wandering randomly along the shelves. Suddenly, she heard a book fall. She raised her head from her book and saw a goblin arranging the books on the shelves. She ran toward her mother and shook her.

- Mom, mom, I just saw a goblin arranging the books !

- I am reading ! Goblins are magical creatures, they don't exist. Do not disturb me with such stupid thing !

Elisabeth went back to the goblin place. He was still arranging the books. She gave him the one she was glancing through. He took it, read the title and put it back on the shelf it came from.

Elisabeth ran again to her mother.

- Mom, mom, the goblin put my book back on its shelf !

- Goblins don't exist ! You went mad, and I'll have you locked up in a madhouse.

Elisabeth went sadly back to the goblin's place, but he wasn't here anymore. She picked up the book she gave him sooner, and started to read it.

During this time, her mother was calling a psychiatrist.

- You have to come here quickly, my daughter has gone crazy, she saw a goblin in the library. Come with the police.

The police arrived with the doctor, and she explained them what happened. Elisabeth, who had finished her book, was coming back to her mother. The doctor asked her :

- Elisabeth, did you see a goblin ?

- A goblin ? Of course not, goblins don’t really exist, you know, she answered seriously.

The psychiatrist asked the policemen to attach the mother with a camisole, and to take her in the ambulance. She was screaming and struggling, suddenly understanding that her daughter trapped her.



Moral :

As long as your child’s room is tidy, don’t worry about who’s doing it.

Sasha

Escape Game, part 3

Right under our nose

    James Tissot. Judas Leaves the Cenacle,
1886-1894. Brooklyn Museum

Oh my. Oh dear. Did that really happen? I think I've just witnessed some sort of abduction... Could it be though? I mean I did see a man violently push a girl into his black van, but how can I be sure of what I saw?

No I mean, let's think about it. I could have hallucinated, couldn't I? Sure I'm not a drug addict, I haven't taken any shrooms or anything, but I did have a few glasses of wine at noon. Alcohol can cause hallucinatory effects, right? Or it could be poisoning, ha! Maybe something I've eaten, or maybe something I've breathed. That's it, I've breathed a noxious gas. Some nitrous oxide or whatever. And it has given me visions of things that have never happened.

... Okay. Right. Maybe there's like little probability for it to happen, but how often does an abduction happen? I don't know, but I know it is not a lot. Probably less than domestic poisoning. See? I'm not being unreasonable here. What? No, I'm not trying to hide behind reasoning. I'm not! There's a lot of ways to be mistaken about what we think we saw. Our eyes are weak, our ears are weak. We keep being deceived by our brains, and our limited senses and the mishappens of life being thrust unto our imperfect lives only to be filtered through the flawed judgement full of biases inherent in our human condition. It could have been an optical illusion, maybe the light from those street lamps over there gave me the illusion that some guy abducted some girl, but really they were just dancing, or maybe it wasn't a girl but a bag of something, or a dummy. And the scream could have been screeching wheels. We are in a city, screeching wheels are a thing.

Did you know you could not even trust your own memories? I've heard of this experiment where they could implant false memories into some people's heads. Sometimes people could believe they had done something even though they did not. Well, not believe, but remember. That's some scary shit if you ask me, but it does happen! And it could have very well happened to me. I mean I think I saw something, but what I see has already happened in the past, because of light speed or something like that, so technically, it would already be a memory, right? And since memories can be flawed, well then... One plus one equals two. Noone can argue with that.

But what if I am wrong, you ask? That's what trying to tell you. Oh, you mean what if I am wrong about being wrong? Shouldn't I take the chance, the risk, of doing something about what I think I saw, even though it might not have happened, because the cost of it is much smaller than the cost of not doing anything in case something really did happen? Well, I mean sure, some people could deem an acceptable moral stance to pay the lesser cost with the greatest benefit, that is maybe save a life, but how can I be sure how much does it cost?

Let's pretend for a minute that I did see something real. How can I know that what I saw is what it seemed? That's one thing to witness something, but then you and only yourself make up the meaning of it. You don't really know what happened. Okay, because we pretend we did see something, let's go and examine this hypothesis. So, a guy abducting a girl would be considered a fact.
Well sure, but why would I stick my nose into someone else's business? I mean I don't know who this guy is, why is he doing it. I'm not trying to rationalize this man's behaviour, I'm not the kind of guy who thinks she "deserved it" or something, this is not where I'm going. What I mean is, this guy good be from a gang, or the mafia or whatever. And thus the cost of saying something would be way higher. I'm pretty sure they don't like snitches, well that's what I've learned from movies anyway. I don't want to be shived in a dark alley, or be the next one onto the "To Abduct" list. Maybe he's like the FBI or something and she is a terrorist. How would I know?
Also it's assuming that the cost of not saying something could be high. But it doesn't have to be. Maybe this is nothing but some weird sexual fantasy. I know people have those, some Fifty Shades of Gray amateurs who have taken the roleplaying a tiny bit far. How would I know this wasn't consensual? People do have weird fantasies, I'm not making that up, so who am I to judge, right? Maybe they are even filming. This could be a movie, I know they have some weird movies out there in Serbia, so this might very well be one of those.

So yeah, my decision has been taken. It's too late now anyway, I was lost in my thoughts and didn't have time to catch the number plate.

...But what if someone saw me see this? I mean, could I have troubles for not saying anything? Can someone be the witness on the case of my own refusal to say anything while witnessing someone potentially in danger? Will I be required to testify anyway, at the risk of being condemned? Shouldn't I just avoid this risk alltogether by giving my own testimony, getting ahead of anything that could be used against me? Or should I just let it flow, and if I'm caught, just pretend I was confused, and panicking or something, and afraid. Which I might be, to be honest, I mean, panicking. Is this me panicking? Oh my god. It is, isn't it? I don't know, is it? Oh dear, I think I'm panicking.

Fred