The glass lay on its side on the table. The cognac slithered across and made its way onto the carpet in small calculated drips; the glass was bleeding. Nothing else was out of place- as always; the shelves on the walls were stacked with family heirlooms, like the rumours about her that had been orderly stuffed in his mind.

He was supposed to have met her there, in that living-room, but she was nowhere to be found. Not there, not in the bedroom, not in the backyard. Not even at the station where she liked to go and watch, hypnotized, as steam filtered out of passing locomotives. She could spend hours there, just staring at the white gaseous substance, lost in a world no one else had access to.

He walked out the back door, passing her small stable as he went. The whinny of her mare suddenly caught his attention. There was something eerie about the soft, slightly bothered sound. Like a siren beckoning a sailor to his doom. Edging in with tentative steps he noticed the horse stamping its hoof impatiently.

A long shadow stretched from the animal’s pen, splattering out onto the far wall.

He lost his breath at the sight of a pair of delicate feet floating a few inches off the ground.

There had been a suicide in Socialville.