Clockwise Cat Strikes Back

Suddenly In November
by Marja Hagborg
The police officer gave her his broken glasses muttering something unintelligible,
something that sounded like an apology or a prayer. She held the glasses in her hand
noticing that only one lens was broken.
“He doesn’t need these anymore” she said and was thinking how odd it was that he
decided to hang himself wearing his glasses. Why would he have wanted to see the
bathroom for the last time? She couldn’t understand why anyone would want to see a
freaking ugly bathroom just before the moment one can’t see anything ever again.
“We are so sorry” she heard the officers say several times while awkwardly moving
towards the door, walking in slow motion like carefully backing away from a potentially
rabid dog, faces frozen, eyes colorless like water or ice, hands too big and clumsy to
carry anything but their own weight, heavy chins pressing against blue, starched collars.
“We are sorry for your loss,” they said one more time before closing the door and were
gone, leaving her alone with an unbearable silent scream inside her head.
Later that day, when the short November day was ending, when the frugal wintry
daylight started to turn purple and grey and finally opaque darkness, she walked to the
sea shore because she couldn’t think of any other place to go to. The cold wind from the
sea was hurting her face, but she didn’t care because the pain inside her soul was so much
worse, any distraction was a blessing.
Author bio: Marja Hagborg is a Scandinavian-born writer/artist who received her
MFA from University of Gothenburg, Sweden. She studied creative writing at
Northwestern University and screenwriting at Chicago Dramatists in Chicago. She
lives with a Viking husband and twin cats in Chicago and writes mostly very dark
short fiction and occasionally stories meant to be funny.