Dead and buried

The truth is, while I've been lying in bed this morning
I have had a moment that tells me my life will never be
the same again. I have had plenty of moments of truth
before. This moment was different. Tucked up in bed, I
saw a film running through my mind of my life and I
know why people happily succumb to death. I realised
that I have had enough.

Last Christmas, a woman my age was found hanged in our small town. I
didn't know her. I didn't grow up here. A friend of mine went to her
funeral. The dead woman's mother was furious that her
daughter had been so selfish as to kill herself. She wasn't found for a
week. One of the other librarians called around to see why she hadn't
turned into work.

It was all over the local paper and the paper in the
next City. Woman found hanged. Hanging tragedy.Spinster
found dead. Christmas tragedy. They revelled in it. Of
course. Later the inquest and the funeral were detailed
for all interested parties to read; there were x
amounts of people and three readings and her favourite
piece of music and her older sister sang Ave Maria and
her brothers and father carried the coffin, on their
shoulders, to the little churchyard and slowly lowered
her into the family grave. A reception was held at the
hotel on the hill and later her family bought a marble
headstone and wrote the words - at peace. They did her
proud. Then the trouble really started. After she was
dead, they found her diary. It nearly killed them. The
shock of it all. But she might just have been making
it all up. Just because it was written down as a diary
doesn't mean it was the truth.