Strangled

I decided to try this out of the blue. Wont you tell me if you hate it? ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was found at the edge of the trees.

This letter was recovered on the inside of her sneakers. It is adressed to no one. I will reveal it to you now, as her detective, the cause of her death. It is both unfathomable and an oddity to the medical field. So I display for you what is thought to be a suicide note.

~~~

One day you will find me draped across the steady arms of an oak. You might say my name, but I will not stir. Neither will my lungs pump or my heart exhale fresh rivulets of blue blood, for I will be gone to some golden shore. That is all I am completely sure of.

The band will play its song. It is played every night and that pattern will not falter because of me. But I hope they'll play it their fastest ever. Will you have them do that for me, please? I pretend you will.

Crickets sport their violins and cellos and strings of every kind. Bull frogs hum in that soulful baratone around a swamp upon their stools. A barn owl will call out his same unusual question. Who cooks for you, who cooks for you all? May it go on forever.

They won't know how I went, just that I did. How could they? There will be know physical signs or inward. I will have been killed against my will but not in murder. My sickness, to this extent, is uncommon and very easily misunderstood.

My silent friends may sway in a dance as I would have done with them before. They are the best of dancing company since they can't fully dance themselves. So, we pretend we can.

My heart is so tired of being ignored. I think it hates me more than anyone else, for it has picked me the oddest target. Maybe Cupid is a killer running around with tickleish arrows and a hawk's aim. He's shot me in the back and it burns perfectly.

The doctor will say I had a heart attack.

With luck a distant cry will be heard. One that I haven't heard since I was a small girl lying awake at the midnight. The piercing sweet howl of a stranger, coyote.

The doctor will be right.

The favorite sound I'll never hear again. I hear nothing. I see nothing. Not the crickets, the frogs, the owl, the coyote, the bell, the prayer, the dirt falling over me. O! The last so thankfully!

Wonder, I was strangled by my heartstrings.

~~~

Indeed, the victim was strangled. We found a bruise the width of a piano string across her jugular vein. There was no sign of struggle. In her hand there was a yellow jessamine. The kind she called a buttercup and pixies wore as hats. The piano string was never found.