I'm a silly, willy goose, aren't I, Just?
Here's something I wrote when I was feeling depressed. Since it's me, it became about a murder, not a suicide. I might pursue the story some time in the future. I was watching Sherlock at the time and Miss. Marple and Poirot so I guess it made sense to switch it to a murder. I'm watching Midsomer Murders right now so I'll probably be able to write more about it later.
I hope you enjoy.
To Die or Live
I want to either die or to live. I do not want to have this half-life. It’s either and, at present, it seems like my most accessible option is to die. I have nowhere else to go. I have no money or lands to my name and my mother’s name is severely in debt. Should she die before me, I will be without home and paying off promises that I myself had no part in the making. It is a matter of continuing to live without prospects and almost completely alone in my mother’s house on this forsaken bit of bog until she dies and I am thrown out or to die with some modicum of dignity in a manner and time of my choosing. I say to you I choose to control my life and my death.
I choose to die.
Three hours after penning those last four little words, Maurice Pennington was found drowned in the bog just outside his mother’s cottage by a group of hunters and their basset hound, who had been looking for duck.
This was quite odd since Maurice had never intended to drown himself. He was not weighted down so it was determined by the hunters with mutters of, “Nasty business, aren’t it?” that he was helped to his death by someone pushing his head under and keeping it there until he stopped his struggles. His mother was quite distressed and stood wringing her hands at the window, her rheumy eyes staring out in the general direction of her son’s body both before and long after the constabulary came to examine the body and it was taken away. Some generous soul had come up with money for the poor boy and so he went from there to the undertaker.