Cassi

I am there. I am an observer. I observe everyday. I see everyday. I cry everyday. I cry everyday. I cry like a man, an invisible cry, a cry inside, a cry buried beneath normality. A cry that resonates the split in my heart. The secret shameful cry of a man. I go there, I go to the cubicle, I watch, I watch her get the bucket, a bucket stolen from a cupboard. I Watch her struggle as women do with DIY tasks. She's a bit angry as she can't get the ligature fitted securely to the door. She starts to lose her temper, but then sits on the toilet and cries. She was a marvellous girl. She could do anything she put her mind to. Comical really, here she was using that skill. Finally she got the ligature attached. She positioned the bucket and stood on it, struggling to get the ligature around her neck. She looks uncomfortable? I wonder if she's just practising? I wonder if she will have the guts to do it? I already know. She places one foot over the side of the bucket, gradually allowing the weight to pull the ligature around her neck. The pain is written on her face. A decision.... her foot swings and pushes the bucket away. Her face goes bright red, her eyes bulge, her hands come up.. up to the literature clawing at the ligature.. has she changed her mind? Will someone come and help? Can I help? But I'm not really there I can't help. My time to help has past, I missed my chance, my life missed the chance for me, the chance to give love unconditionally, the chance to save missed...