The music swayed about her as she stared at the flickering light. Ava had lost all interest in the film some time ago, but was now enjoying the darkness of the theater. Suddenly everyone was clapping - Ava politely joined in. She then drifted lazily outside with the crowd to the warm summer air. At the corner of First and Main Street sat a homeless man with a scraggy dog mumbling to himself and the world. Smiling benignly - yet decidedly distantly - she passed by. Finally, after a ride on an empty subway, she arrived home; her two bedroom apartment greeted her noiselessly. There were messages on her answering machine - but she preferred the sound of barely audible jazz to her friends' voices. Throwing the ever-present pile of unopened mail off, Ava lay down on the much abused leather couch. The light warm air that blew in from somewhere outside nauseated her. So she got up and closed the window, even drawing the blinds. Returning to the soft couch which molded around her Ava began to daydream listlessly. Slowly the images in her mind began to transform into a monologue: a monologue that turned on its creator and began berating her. The words attacked, prodded, questioned; Ava tried to reply but her throat refused to make a sound. She was drowning in her own thoughts, drowning in the dark recesses of her mind.
The phone rang and rang and is still ringing as far as I know, but no one answers. The Newspapers called it suicide - though some whisper it was murder.
de Vries 2002