Ego cogitare mori...

I said in my first post that I'd retell some of the more bizarre events of my otherwise banal life, to perhaps show why I am as I am.

One day, when I was about five years old, my mother was walking me home from school. I was in a foul mood, but then I always was after school because I hated it so much (but that's another post). We lived on a council estate in a block of flats, and we still do. Now, my area's not exactly in the depths of the ghetto, but it's not the most reputable place for a young mind to flourish. I remember on that day, as we approached the wrought iron fence that barred passage onto the estate, I heard the sound of sirens. This was hardly rare for my area, so I took no notice. It was not till we tried to enter our building did I realise that instead of just speeding by, as most police and ambulances seem to do, they were parked near our block, right outside in fact. I was thrilled, and we walked closer. There was a yellow police cordon and a group of people standing in front of the only door into the building (the other; a fire exit that only opens outward). I was intrigued so I darted forward to investigate while my mother talked to the grown-ups. As they were distracted I was able to get right to the front of the crowd to see what was going on. Splattered onto the concrete floor, right in front of the door to the building, was a body.

To this day I don't know who it was, it was a man, is all I can say. But that didn't matter to my five year old mind. It was a body, and it was dead. This was something that didn't happen in real life, dead bodies only appeared on TV, and they were never this...messy. There was a pool of blood around the mangled corpse, and I recall how it seeped into the cracks in the pavement, into the little lines between great concrete slabs that I had always hopped over to avoid (a compulsion of mine, not the cracks, just the gaps). I couldn't help myself but to stare, it was fascinating. I did not fear it, or mourn it. I felt nothing. To me at the time it was the beginning of a murder mystery, and I was ready to solve the case.

I remember nothing more of that day, except that my mother ruined my 'mystery' when she told me who had killed the man.
"Himself? Why would he kill himself?" I remember saying.
It perplexed me for a great long while. It was inconceivable to me, death seemed the least inviting thing I could imagine. I couldn't fathom why anyone would want to end their lives. We have a balcony and I would often stare over the edge of the railings and wonder whether or not the fall would kill me. I live on the seventh floor, about 14m / 45.8 feet high, but the man was said to have jumped from the top, another three floors yet. The distant ground was threatening enough to me already, I couldn't imagine what the view would be like from the top. So I decided to find out.

Later, I'll begin the retelling of another, quite related, incident that happened soon after...

to be continued...

Quod differtur, non aufertur. Quod incepimus conficiemus.

M