D. (dalaruan) wrote,

encounter III

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Anne Sexton, Wanting to Die

I didn't even know his name. He was a teacher. A fragile man with a romantic look, dark wavy hair and a moustache like a musketeer. We watched him when he bought his tobacco: a motley crew, mostly freelancers without work, castaways, smoking and chatting in the tobacconist's shop like the villagers in Ike Godsey's grocery store.

There was some fine lively talk between the teacher and me, but he seemed absent minded, not interested in more than a random contact.

Then he didn't appear for some weeks. I asked the tobacconist and he told me that the teacher committed suicide. He lived alone and one day in winter break he fasted a while and went to the woods, deep into the woods. He laid down on the ground, in a sleeping bag, too thin for that season. Read some books till dawn, fell asleep. It was a very cold winter and he froze to death.

Some years have passed since then. But I did not forget him nor his special choice of death.

Little Dragon - Twice
Tags: death, encounters, solitude

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