Coroner’s Tales; Blood Red Rain Drops

Starbucks. My seat is placed at the door, which serves the dual function of entrance and exit. We come in, we go out. The door as a metaphor for Life.

The espresso is already cold sitting on my mocha coloured table. I care not, as this type of beverage is rarely consumed for taste. It is bitter, bleak, black. My drink as a metaphor for Life.

I need to stay alert, my brain is wilting.

I cast my eyes up at the sky from my window seat, looking at an overcast sky, which busies itself casting shadows across my table. The air hangs like a slab of greying meat on tender hooks. It’s raining.

Purely for the sake of focus I concentrate on a single rain drop on the sodden window, that sits nestled in its khaki frame, to my right. The rain drop fragmented into five miniscule pieces of wet when it hit the glass. I do not attempt to feel what it felt at that moment. That would be lunacy.

I’ve been here before. Another version of the same theme, albeit it within a differing environment. A twisted, bleak, bitter place. Synapses fire, heart begins to pitter-patter at a quickened pace. Eyelids flutter and I’m thrown back two years.

In this memory I’m standing, having walked into a small log house located in a rural place nestled in woodland, outside of town.

The air hangs heavy with an aroma of palpable decay. The grey body of a man in his thirties lays tenderly, on the floor. His eyes cast a hook, drawing me closer. His right hand still gripping the knife that he dragged across his own throat.

I look at the opposing wall. I concentrate on a single blood drop separated from the larger splayed stain.  The blood drop fragmented into five miniscule pieces of wet when it hit the wall. I do not attempt to feel the pain he felt at that moment.

That would be lunacy.

3 Responses to “Coroner’s Tales; Blood Red Rain Drops”

  1. rageholic Says:

    Well said.

    I feel a kinship with this because I’ve stood in the same place looking at similar vacant eyes. I don’t want to feel the same as that person to even try will lead me down a horrible path that threatens to infect my person.

    Nor do I want to try and place myself in the writers mind and feel what he did or does. It’s pointless! I have my own thoughts and reasoning, my own feelings, motivation and ways of surviving.

    I do not need to latch on to someone elses, I will concentrate on my own. Seeking to live in this moment and enjoy it.

  2. rageholic Says:

    However I disagree with his coffee choice, hot, bitter and black is the way to enjoy coffee or espresso.

  3. […] locations. I once sat down with a warm cup and wrote about my visit to a death scene of a young man who slit his own throat. Perhaps some subconscious neural association attracts me to the coffee shops.  Perhaps it […]

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