Death of the Hypochondriac (365 Ways With Words)

She closed the door behind her and viewed the waiting room. The disappointed faces returned to their dog-eared magazines and iPhone screens. She was also disappointed – disappointed that he had yet again not diagnosed her illness. She knew it was there; festering, lurking, waiting to spring out and cut her down. She knew this and inwardly died with each clear symptom that renewed her awful realisation.

The road home was strewn with autumnal leaves and lunchtime cigarette butts. She wasn't sure if she could cope with another winter and she could feel the tears well. Last year's miserable cold compromised her immune system: she'd had three colds in a row. And then she took the fall just before Christmas that meant having to stay at home with only the TV and Facebook for company. No one visited – her news and posts seemed to be ignored. No, another winter would be a cruel torment. A lonely tear rolled down her face.

The stairs to her apartment had just been washed, giving the whole block an antiseptic twang – like a hospital. That's where she really needed to be: at least until they diagnosed the worst. It was inevitable, really. Death would come as surely as winter and she began to realise that the only way to avoid it was to preempt the unavoidable. Then, at the autopsy and the inquest, they would realise just what was wrong. They would understand her note written weeks, if not months ago – it said it all.

The dark flat welcomed her to its secluded prison. As usual it smelt of leaking gas and bathroom cleaning fluid. She took her scarf and coat off, but instead of hanging them up she put them over the back of the battered sofa. Out of the pocket tumbled tissues and the new packet of Nurofen. For period pain, she nevertheless wondered if she could overdose on the whole packet. Would she need the entire bottle of vodka to combine the customary cocktail? She had a small bottle in the cupboard left over from a party from, oh – years ago, but didn't like it. She didn't like alcohol at all really. But then again, that wouldn't really matter, would it.

Over the flame's light under the kettle, she stared at the near-full bottle. Funny stuff to drink. Why anyone would make it in the first place was beyond her. And yet so many of her friends at college went to pubs and ordered a 'vodkatonic' or vodkanorange': ruined perfectly good tonic or orange juice as far as she was concerned. Would they still be drinking it now all these years on?

Her tea over, she once again picked up the purple box of 16 tablets and read the info. She was unhappy they were not suitable for vegetarians. Why? What animal product was included in painkillers? And did animals have to be killed, suffer pain, in order that we should stop feeling pain. It was another woeful example of the twisted world that humans had constructed for themselves. It was another reason to leave.

Without realising, she had pushed each blister and had a little pile of white pill-shaped pills before her. Could she? Could she? Really?

Without realising, she had popped one in, tasting the sugary-then-bitter pill flavour. Then another, then another filled her mouth. The taste was now most unappealing.

She looked again at the cheap old vodka. Without realising, she had twisted the cap off and put her lips to the bottle top. The rank fumes filled her nostrils. Almost gagging, she swiftly took a mouthful, as if a bearded wino or full-time park alcoholic. The taste was indescribably awful – as she swallowed her throat burned as if with acid. Her eyes watered and there followed 30 seconds of intense coughing. She cried. It was just too difficult this way.

She couldn't do it. It was too much. The cap was returned and firmly screwed down. She looked around. Her scarf. Knotting it firmly around her neck, she looked for a suitable place to tie. The overhead lights were undoubtedly too weak to hold her. Besides, there just wasn't enough height for a decent drop. She tiptoed outside in her slippers. There was the railing over the stairwell: that would surely hold. She took both ends of the scarf and tied a tight granny knot. Without realising it she had hoisted her leg over. She stopped for a moment: would the scarf really hold or would it snap? If it did, she'd fall onto the lower stairs and break one or both of her legs for sure. And what if the scarf was too loose – wouldn't that mean her head would come right off? Like Saddam Hussein?

She cried again in deep effusive sobs and pulled back her leg and untied the tightly knotted scarf. Outside the rain was falling. If ever there was a meteorological metaphor it was rain – he mood darkened like the rainclouds and each self-obsessed tear she shed upon the newly-cleaned landing was the gloomy rain. Except, of course, it was a simile and not a metaphor.

If she was to really jump then she'd have to get onto the roof. That bit was simple: she climbed the last flight and drew back the squeaky bolt that kept the metal door closed. There, on the other side of the rooftop, were the buckets and planks of the last work detail who fixed up the leak last January, and all but two of the disused washing lines hung dirty and limp from their poles. It was a scene of loneliness and the past. She wandered over to the edge. Even three floors up seemed a long way from the ground. Vertigo grasped her, causing a sharp intake of breath. She found herself gripping the very brickwork around the edge. Could she do it? Could she?

Without realising it she was standing on the edge looking straight down where the paving slabs and grass met. If she hit the slabs she'd most likely die instantly, but if she hit the grass she might survive – injured. Again, the dilemma rocked her and her knees began to quiver with the effects of the vertigo. Backing down she buried her face in her cold hands as a cascade of anguished tears burst from her squirty eyes.

Sniffling as she retreating down the stairs, she turned to bolt the door and was immediately aware of the smell of gas. It increased as she neared the flat: she closed the flat door. Realising she had accidentally left the gas on, she instinctively ran to turn it off before it got to a critical level. Opening the kitchen door the smell was heavier, more intense, than ever before; strong unpleasant, overpowering, its breath was exhaling in one continuous loud gasp. In the late afternoon dimness she had to see what was going on and flicked the overhead kitchen light switch.

The spark-lit explosion took out every window of the flat. It took three fire crews to bring it fully under control, by which time the note was nothing more than a blackened damp paper cinder.