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.
