Teabags & Ice
To paraphrase Charles Dickens, in the beginning, I was born. I came out of my mother onto a sweaty, shitty bed. I was blue and grey and very, very long. I was a disgusting sight to behold. I recoloured in time and I enjoyed my childhood.
I became a salesman, a purveyor of fine teas and tisanes from parts unknown. I travelled the world gathering up all manner of dried herbs and vegetables. I stitched them into teabags and flogged them in markets. People went nuts for my teas. They loved them to bits. I made a living by selling my teas, sometimes by the bag, sometimes by the bag of bags. I was well regarded.
My name is Paul, by the way. I am the guy that is hanging over the edge of the Sydney Harbour Bridge by a long rope. I am dead now. I should point out that I’m not hanging by the neck, I wasn’t executed this way. I am hanging by my wrists.
My killer was a person named Nancy. She was an old and spotted woman who had nothing but goodwill in her heart until I came into her life. I sold her a cup of tea that she thought would cure her hypothermia, but it did no such thing. She got colder and colder until she passed away. She was brittle, like an ice sculpture. When she moved her joints creaked, that horrible grating sound of ice rubbing up against ice. She snapped my neck with her frozen hands. Nancy was very strong.
