Tied Strange by Calder Moore

He called her name. She did not answer. He turns on the lights.

He did not see her body, hanging from the rafters.

Strange, he would have said, strange how the knot is tied.

She swings above him, a pendulum reminding him of the time.

He checks his watch; a small drop of water hits the glass.

He ignores it, sighs, and leaves the house.

She was cold, so she took a shower.

The steam was thick, almost suffocating; warm though.

She stepped out into the room, it was dim. The mirrors were fogged over.

She dries herself off and gets dressed. He would be here soon.

The hairdryer cleared the mirror of steam; there was a rope behind her.

The coarse fibers felt friendly around her neck.

“He’ll be on time,” it tells her, tying the knot, “Don’t make him late.”

She sits on the edge of the railing; she looks at the ground.

“Will he remember me?” She asks; her face is smooth, dampness from the shower drips.

“Probably not,” it says, then pushes her off the edge.

She turns around, to see it. Holding the rope in its hands.

“Fate is calling,” it says, “it asks for you to die.”

She breaths heavily, weight oppressing her mind. She follows it to the top of the stairs.

It throws the rope over a rafter. Ties it tight.

“You won’t feel a thing,” it says, as it turns off the lights.

Stevenson Summer