“When I turned thirty, everyone started killing themselves. My neighbour slit his wrists in the bathtub, leaving behind a wife, two children, a pet Labrador and a half-finished scale model of the RMS Titanic. Then a secretary from work (I never knew her name) was found in the basement, hung with an extension cord, and there was sorrow there, and hushed talk in the cafeteria, and a whip-round for a wreath.”
A story about an strange epidemic of suicides. Published in The South Circular. Purchase a digital copy here.