If I had remembered it was there I would have remembered to dispose of the box, or at the very least hide it better, before they came round to help me move. ‘What’s this?’ They asked me, pulling it down from the back of the shelf above my wardrobe, ‘I’ve never seen this before.’ I tried to tell them it was nothing, that it was personal but there were supposed to be no secrets between us and so when I said it was nothing they just chuckled gently and went right on ahead opening the lid before I could stop them. Their curious smile flattened once they saw the darkness inside the box. I was stricken immobile through panic, though fear, powerless to stop them delving deeper to unearth letters and photographs dating back decades. When they finally looked up at me, I thought it would be with anger but it looked to be more like pity, yet still with an undertone of care. ‘Are these what I think they are?’ They said and I couldn’t stop myself from nodding. There were no secrets between us, at least there shouldn’t be. I stepped over the packing boxes and piles of rubbish bags and took the box back from them, closing it firmly. ‘Redundant suicide notes,’ I said. I moved to put the box in the trash but they took it back from me. They said they deserved a proper funeral, out of respect. So that’s what we did. The first evening of our new lives together, the first in this house, was spent toasting marshmallows over the fire as flecks of ash and embers of my past lives, my darkness, floated up into the sky and dissolved back into the night.
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