number 15
Okay. That was odd.
Just got back from Chapel Street (loaded down with groceries), to find a lady hanging around our block of flats. She asked if I lived here, I said yup and she explained how she's worried about her friend who lives here because he's recently become very depressed ("It's happened suddenly, just CAME on him, you know?") and not answering his phone or going to work or anything and she's panicking he might've killed himself. I offered to let her into the stairwell so she could at least bang on his door, which she gratefully accepted.
Weird thing is - it's the bloke in #15.
About four years ago, Steve, a previous occupant of #15 killed himself in there and was dead for four days before his friends got the cops to break into the flat and find him. That's an event (and, I assure you, a smell) that I'm unlikely to ever forget.
We came upstairs, I told her which flat I am and offered the use of my phone if she needed it. A couple of minutes later, she knocked timidly. (An automatic "Please excuse the mess." Heh.) She tried calling him again from here, but still nothing. I tried suggesting the Body Corporate managers, the Citizen's Advice Bureau, the police, but she was adamant she didn't want to bother anyone. We talked for a bit longer about depression and some of the ways it can manifest with people, I wished her the best of the luck and she went for another knocking attempt and left after getting no response again.
After Steve died in there, it took me quite a long time to not think about it every single damned time I was in the stairwell, y'know?
I'm on the alert for signs of George now...
And can't help sparing a silly thought to how she might describe me and the TARDIS if she talks about her day with anyone. :) "The only person I could get hold of was this girl with a mohawk and tattoos and army boots! And the flat! You should've seen it! Full of swords and skulls and things!" *glib smile*
Just got back from Chapel Street (loaded down with groceries), to find a lady hanging around our block of flats. She asked if I lived here, I said yup and she explained how she's worried about her friend who lives here because he's recently become very depressed ("It's happened suddenly, just CAME on him, you know?") and not answering his phone or going to work or anything and she's panicking he might've killed himself. I offered to let her into the stairwell so she could at least bang on his door, which she gratefully accepted.
Weird thing is - it's the bloke in #15.
About four years ago, Steve, a previous occupant of #15 killed himself in there and was dead for four days before his friends got the cops to break into the flat and find him. That's an event (and, I assure you, a smell) that I'm unlikely to ever forget.
We came upstairs, I told her which flat I am and offered the use of my phone if she needed it. A couple of minutes later, she knocked timidly. (An automatic "Please excuse the mess." Heh.) She tried calling him again from here, but still nothing. I tried suggesting the Body Corporate managers, the Citizen's Advice Bureau, the police, but she was adamant she didn't want to bother anyone. We talked for a bit longer about depression and some of the ways it can manifest with people, I wished her the best of the luck and she went for another knocking attempt and left after getting no response again.
After Steve died in there, it took me quite a long time to not think about it every single damned time I was in the stairwell, y'know?
I'm on the alert for signs of George now...
And can't help sparing a silly thought to how she might describe me and the TARDIS if she talks about her day with anyone. :) "The only person I could get hold of was this girl with a mohawk and tattoos and army boots! And the flat! You should've seen it! Full of swords and skulls and things!" *glib smile*