We stood around. We stared at all the pieces – his remains. We stared, but with each other we did not make eye contact.
This clown, he had tried to cut his wrists at first. He’d used a pocket knife. He’d failed. Fumbled it.
Then he’d moved on to a belt. He’d wrapped his clown-belt around his clown-neck. He’d closed the ends of the belt in the closet door. Over the top. This proved to be more effective than the pocket knife. He’d succeeded, and now the clown was dead.