She lies in bed in this cathedral of a room. High ceilinged with roof lights letting in the sun. White walled, wood floored, the archetype of boutique living. She lies in bed and listens to the distant sound of surf crashing on the shore.
Shoreline noises aside, there is perfect silence. No traffic, no tv, no tinny music playing from anyone’s phone. This is off the earth.
Behind the whitewashed croft, a cliff. The land falls sheer away to the sea. At the foot of that cliff, the surf booms. Last night she stood at the edge and watched the foamy sea, wrapping solitude around herself like a shawl.
She knows she has run away. She knows and doesn’t care. She has run away from things legally binding. She has run from her moral obligations. She has run to the end of that major island and taken a boat to land on this minor one.
In this cathedral of a room, on this altar of a bed, she sacrifices the last vestige of her complicity. She takes the bottle from the bedside cabinet, the strap from the drawer. She pushes the needle into the vein and falls off the earth.
Inspired by a PastPostcards tweet.