A Post Mortem

So here I am.
Sitting at the very edge of the universe, at the very rim of the crater we call home. The trees are howling outside and a drizzle, as light as dew, sketches patterns against the light of a street lamp.
Scattered about me are pencils, pens, brushes, yarns, candles, paper cuttings, bottles of linseed oil, acrylic paint, binder gum and turpentine, a hair clip, a calculator, a sharpener, a recipe for ribbon cake, a box of broken rosin, an outdated address book, seashells, rocks, paper clips, stamps, charcoal, a can full of coins and pebbles, a paperback edition of To The Lighthouse, a folder, a pouch, a purse, an expired lip balm, a dictionary, a Happy Meal toy and an ID issued by the National Institute of Mental Health. And if I die, right here, right now, this is all I leave behind.

They say that your surroundings are a reflection of your self, an extension of your body, that where you are is who you are. Tonight, everything around me is covered in a thin film of dust- micro particles of human residue, probably, mostly my own, anyway. The rest, I assume, is cat fur.
If I happen to die tonight, and the detectives arrive by midday tomorrow, with their baggy trench coats, shabby boots, hats, pipes and magnifying glasses, this is what they will find. Unimpressive- there's nothing on can furtively slip into one's trench coat pocket.


They will stomp across my room, shuffling, grumping and bumping into each other, peering into every nook and corner, breaching the sanctity of these walls. They will look for evidence under my mattress, behind my underwear drawer and between the bristles of my toothbrush. They would question the cat if they could. They will read my journal and snigger. And while they are trying to think, one might scratch his head, another might touch his beard and the third might even chew on his pipe.

"This is all she's left behind. It's got to mean something."
"Rather strange, don't you think, to die at one-and-twenty?"
"Hmm", they'd nod, now solemn and sad.

With a sheepish smile, they will take a few magazines to read on their way home. The journey is long, you see, and tends to get rather dull. Besides, they might find a clue.
Soon, they'll depart and leave all my mysteries behind- a towel on the floor, a shadow on the wall.

In the mean time, I- now boiled and caked, and wrapped and sealed- will know nothing.