Something odd occurred to me last night, in the wee smalls. If I should die one night (by my own hand or by some other means) then it could be two weeks before anyone realises I’m dead, or before anyone finds me.
Oddly I’m not actually disturbed by the dying… but by the thought of my cleaners finding me two weeks later.
Why two weeks, you ask?
Well, I live alone, so there’s no one at home to find my body.
My boss would probably wonder where I was, might even leave me a phone message, but that would be it.
Likewise my friends, they might wonder, send a text or two, may be even leave a message on the house phone, but in the end they’d just assume I’m busy.
The Back Up Therapist would probably just assume I’d decided not to show up. She doesn’t know me that well so she probably doesn’t know that would be entirely out of character for me.
The Wonder Therapist is due back this week… she might wonder where I was, but as it will be the first session back after an extended break, she’d probably just assume I mucked up the time.
My mother would continue to call me at our twice-weekly time. She might get a little sh*tty and text me to find out where I was. But she’s been trying quite hard to respect my boundaries and my privacy more than she ever has, so she probably wouldn’t do anything.
Were it the middle of summer the neighbours might be disturbed by the stench, but as we’re heading into winter that wouldn’t happen. Although the cat might get hungry and start to raise the roof with her howling.
So, there we are. Dead for two weeks before anyone finds me, and then it’s the damned cleaners.
That’s a pretty yuk thought.