I remember visiting her a couple of years ago.
A knock on the door. A pounding eventually. A calling out. Calling out for 20 minutes. Leaving a note.
I returned the next day. Two notes on the door. Again the calling out. Again the pounding on the door. And then the fear. A sense of ... something is not right.
I broke into the house. Through a window. And the small trickles of blood as I entered.
No one downstairs. The house the same. No change. No progress.
Upstairs.
And as I approached, the voice, "Suzy?".
And my heart sank. The anger. The questions. Wondering to myself, "Will I always have to find a way in?"
I remember the position. How she was lying there. Pale, lifeless and the thought, "She is waiting to die."
And this memory merged with the summer events.
The same position. Different location. But the same. Only this time lifeless.