Two weeks ago I'd thrown away all of my diaries, years' worth of writing.
The bins had been collected, the diaries wouldn't be found.
I'd sold what furniture and electronics people would buy, left the money in an envelope,
everything else was boxed up.
I'd made the house spotless.
I took my car along the coast.
I wanted to drive that way one last time.
I rolled down the window; the salty wind in my face felt wonderful, and I laughed in spite
of myself.
The laughter kept bubbling out, and I realised how light I felt, how free, for the first
time in such a long time.
I stopped about halfway along the white bridge over the cove.
Sitting on the rail my laughter dried up and the tears came.
A car door slammed.
A stranger came to the rail.
He told me: "I was once where you are now."
"What stopped you?"
I wanted to know.
"I made a friend."
He sat with me for about an hour silently, while I cried, on and off.
Finally, he said: "Come on, let's go for a coffee," and started towards his car.
I hopped down and looked at him a moment, before sliding into the passenger seat.
He shut the door after me and I realised that the interior door handle had been forcibly
removed.
There was a handcuff dangling from a piece of the metal frame.
He grinned at me from his seat, and reached to close the cuff over my wrist.
As I thought of the suicide note I'd left with my neatly boxed belongings, white blinding
panic threatened to swallow me whole.