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Mystery at the Morris home, in which Mimsy is drunk.


Feeling the abundant warmth of the blood that spilled out of him was more intoxicating than any drink had ever been. It would have been a waste to lose this much - to lose everything - but one could not waste what they were not using any more.

There would be signs of a struggle when the time came for someone to investigate. Less of one than she had imagined, in all of the instances she had imagined it, but she had never been able to physically overpower him. That was never the method that she had used to sink her teeth in, and this was likely the reason that he had given up without much of a fight. Only she would know that he fought more for them than for himself, which she found outstandingly irony in, all circumstances considered.

They would note that all of their possessions remained here, and could never know it only seemed that way. Everything unnecessary had been left behind, and unnecessary defined so much of what was kept within what used to be a home. Furniture. Photographs. Pets. People. If there was no need to go on pretending, not even for herself, then there was no need to struggle with material connections that were of no value to her.

They would not dwell on the mystery for long, swept along by the current of one pressing matter to the next. And even if they had, they would never have found an answer, would never pin down a 'why', a reason.

In truth, she had never needed one.

Documentary in Canada, in which Mimsy is Death.