A wave of sadness washed over me as I thought about how he had missed Christmas day with his children. I immediately suspected murder; disgust and hatred filled every part of my body. Although as I looked more closely I realised that my quick assumption was indeed wrong. Suicide, it was obvious now. Everything about him said it. The photo of his family in his hand, the ring marks on his finger and the diary with the rest of the year missing. He knew he wouldn’t be here because he knew that he was defiantly going to die. He had taken his own life, taken it away from himself but also from his loved one’s.
It’s depressing, death. Hidden away from the public but always there staring at me. I wanted to be at home away from work and with my family at this, supposedly happy time of year, but I knew that my work here was not done.
I stood there staring at my old friend, knowing that if it was suicide I needed to find some sort of evidence. As I reached into his pocket and pulled out his possessions I felt as if I was trespassing on his memory. Snow was falling gently around us and fell softly onto his cold face.
I took out picture upon picture, pieces of meaningless paper and his wallet. As I looked through the papers I saw a note, a note to his family probably written in his dying minutes. I immediately knew what it was, a suicide note. It was too much, too upsetting, too hard to bear. It’s my job yet when faced with the death of a friend I had broken down so easily.
I left the snow-filled park and headed towards his house. This felt like a dream, as if I would suddenly wake up from a bad nightmare, but it wasn’t and I was getting closer and closer to the front door. I entered the garden and glanced through the window to see his young children laughing and smiling. Tears filled my eyes as I looked at the children who would not know their father.
I swallowed hard as if to get rid of the scared feeling in my throat. I lifted my sweating hand to the door and knocked. His wife came to the door, her face full of happiness and joy. Her eyes met mine and at once she knew that this was not a friendly visit. Her face was blank and colourless, as if all the happiness had been drained from it. She stood there and cried. This once strong and independent woman was now weak and vulnerable. The words ‘I’m sorry’ mechanically came out as if I had no feelings at all. I was just a robot doing my job.
She sat down on the doorstep cold, crying and shaking. This is my job, bringing news of death and sadness to otherwise perfectly happy families.
She sat there with her head in her hands for what seemed like an eternity. Her son came out and asked why mummy was crying. She just held him in her arm not wanting to let him go. The look on her face told me that she wanted me to leave.
So I just walked away, too traumatised to speak or think. He was gone, gone like a bit of sand thrown into the wind, never to be seen again.