John shot himself in the heart on a warm summer day. The lawns were freshly mowed and vivid green. The rose garden outside his window was in full bloom, a bouquet of yellow blossoms. The sun beat down against his leaded glass beveled window, but was blocked by his dark velvet drapes.
I know precisely what took place, but I have no idea what happened. We were all aware of his deteriorating mental state- his increased anxiety and his troubled sleep, so one could easily assume an impulsive move, but evidence has shown that not to be the case. Every door was carefully locked. His jewelry had been removed and stored away. And most compelling, a note was found after the event that had been written several days previously.
Now a bit of background. He had undergone invasive heart surgery the previous summer. The doctor pronounced the surgery a success, but the patient didn't fully recover. From that event, he became paranoid about his health. That late fall, he was hospitalized for observation. He stopped drinking and improved greatly, but then slipped back into his old ways. His psychiatrist, unaware of his alcohol consumption, tried to help and prescribed an anti-psychotic drug, Zyprexa. This drug is not intended to be mixed with alcohol, and several suicides have been linked to the combination. So the drug's culpability cannot be dismissed, especially considering the off brand bottle of found vodka next to his bed. This is why I say I know exactly what took place, but I have no idea what happened. And sadly, I never will.
I lied for over a year. I felt I had to, for John, for his partner Ken, for his friends, for myself, for the myth of all of us. I was at the house the following day, with the challenging task of making calls from his personal telephone ledger. Many people, upon hearing the news, asked if it was his heart. I said yes, and stopped at that. I thought I was protecting him, but I was lying.
In the end, he was in control of the facts and I was not. John shot himself in the heart on a warm summer day.