She had a multitude of ear piercings and one lip piercing, a ring on the left side of her lower lip, which kind of gave her an alternative/rocker vibe. But it didn’t go with the rest of her fashion sense. More often than not, she wore baggy graphic t-shirts with corny humor and dated references.

She wasn’t conventionally attractive but she was far from ugly. She intrigued Carl and he spent a fair amount of time spying on her, trying to figure her out.

She spent most of her time reading. Despite his best efforts, he could never really ascertain the titles. She never had friends over. Although, to be fair, Carl never let his friends see the hovel that he called home either. She worked at a local juice place, judging from the logo on her visor and apron work uniform that he sometimes saw her wearing on her way ir or out. She didn’t seem to have a boyfriend or any kind of significant other.

Irritatingly, he had never had a chance to even see her naked. Her apartment, like his, was simply a large bedroom with small kitchenette and a tiny bathroom in the back. His peephole gave him full view of the main room but he couldn’t see anything that went on in the bathroom. She always changed in the bathroom area and she slept in over-sized shirts. Did she know about the peephole? Or was it just her manner to dress immediately after bathing?

One Sunday morning Carl was idly lying in bed, playing on his phone when he heard a clatter from Maddie’s room. It was nothing to be alarmed about--he simply assumed that it was a heavy book being dropped or some furniture being rearranged. As innocuous as the sound was, it did mean that Maddie was awake and so Carl slipped out of bed to the peephole to see what he could see.

His prediction of moved furniture proved accurate: one of her kitchenette stools had been moved to the center of the room and had fallen over on it side. But what he saw next was something that he never would have predicted: Maddie, hanging from a noose that had been tied to one of the exposed attic beams above.

Her eyes were closed but her face showed her wincing with pain. Despite this, she didn’t seem to be struggling against her situation. Her arms remained at her side, pressed against the plain black t-shirt that she was wearing. Her legs were not kicking and remained straight, mostly hidden beneath an ankle-length pleated maroon skirt.

What to do?

Carl’s first thought was to rush in and help her. But how could he have known that she was dying? Doing so would expose the existence of his peephole. Nobody else was rushing upstairs to see what was the matter--they all must have written off the noise of the falling chair as unimportant, if they had heard it at all. And who was he to decide whether she should live or die? This was obviously a choice that she had made herself. Why should he interfere?

And so he watched.

As time went by, her face scrunched up more and more, as if the pain was intensifying. Her legs started to twitch slightly, perhaps involuntarily, causing her whole body to wave slightly. As her face began to redden, her mouth opened, as it trying to gasp for air. He heard a faint choking noise--the air was not coming.

Her hands clenched into fists as she seemingly concentrated on overriding her survival instincts and commanding her body into inaction.

Her face continued to redden. Her open mouth widened, now letting out a tongue the seemed to no longer fit inside. Her clenched fists gripped the fabric of her skirt.