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| | mardi, septembre 21, 2004

She would never return. I blamed myself for it, for asking too much.
She made up stories for me. Very small ones at first. Later she began to write them down.
I thought about it for a very long time: why she didn’t leave me a note.
She wanted an open ending. She wanted me to continue the story.

The next morning the police came to my door to ask me some questions about the dead woman and I wondered about reporting her missing. But I didn't.

They showed me a picture of the woman. Her eyes were closed, slack jaw, damaged and puffy face, red hair in plaids on a white pillow.

"Do you know her?" they asked. I’d never seen her."Hasn’t she been reported missing?"
"No, not yet." a policeman answered, looking around the flat.
"Do you live alone here?"
"Yes." I replied.
"Be careful. Don’t go out alone at night," the policeman said when they left.
I stayed in that day and thought about you. They showed the woman on the news at night and I wondered if you were watching.

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