Marielle was my neighbor in this small apartment building in a suburb near the city center.

A little twenty-something nice-looking woman. She had shortish red hair, happy freckles, and small breasts. I often dreamed of having sex with her, but I never dared to ask, afraid it would ruin our friendship. We occasionally sit for an evening, chatting about everyday things, and helping each other out when help was needed.

But Marielle had problems. She didn’t have a job, and she drank a lot. With congenital diabetes, that’s not a good combination, and I often warned her about the dangers. But she was a bit of a hippy by nature and didn’t care in the least.

One evening we were once again sitting in my flat watching films, and enjoying wine. It had been a nice evening, and we had a good time. Marielle knew how to be sociable and keep a good mood going.

Perhaps I would have liked more from her. I don’t mean just sex, but something deeper and more lasting, but that never happened, which I am depressed about.

Our evening went nicely, but as so often happens, Marielle got so drunk again that I had to walk her home. I carried her to bed and tucked her under the covers. I also fetched a bucket for her next to the bed in case she needed to throw up. When I got home, I noticed that her keys were still in my hand. I put them on the table and decided to return them the next day.

I had a slight headache in the morning, which often happens after drinking too much white wine.

I’m more of a beer drinker, but with Marielle, I always drank wine. I had a coffee and read the paper of the day. I did some surfing online until I remembered I had Marielle’s keys, so I called her to tell her she could pick up her keys from me if she got somewhere.

I called three times in a short time, but she didn’t answer her phone. It was strange because that had never happened before. I waited another couple of hours, but as he still didn’t answer my calls I started to get worried. Marielle was Marielle, though, and I thought she had gone off to continue drinking.

The next day I couldn’t reach her by phone. I had her home keys, and she was somewhere, I didn’t know where. I left her a voicemail and a text message to call me when she’s coming home so she could pick up her keys. I slept through the night, but in the morning I was getting really worried. I hadn’t heard from her for thirty hours, so I decided to go and see if everything was okay.

I stood outside her door and rang the bell, but nothing happened. I rang again, but there was only silence. I pressed my ear against the door, but still, I heard no sound. I wondered if it would be polite to go in with her keys, but decided to go anyway, fearing that she might be in trouble.

I called at the door, but there was no answer. After a short hallway, the living room opened, followed by the bedroom where I had taken her. I peeked through the door. She was lying on her side under the blanket, her leg slightly peeking out from underneath. I sat on the headboard and squeezed her leg to wake her, but quickly pulled my hand away. Her leg felt cold and lifeless.

I leaned into her face and felt for a pulse. There was no pulse on the cold neck. Her lips were bluish and her skin was almost snow-white. I was shocked. My friend was dead and had been dead for several hours since the stiffness of death had passed. I don’t know what happened to me, but I half pulled her into my arms and stroked her hair. Her head was against my chest and the coldness of her cheek radiated through my shirt. I laid her back on the bed.

She looked so beautiful despite her paleness, her pale skin blending well with her red hair.

I felt dizzy, so I leaned against the wall with my hand. It slipped and I fell over my dead friend.

I would have thought it would feel terrible, but to my surprise, I felt a strange sense of closeness. I lifted the blanket a little. She was wearing white panties and only a sleeveless t-shirt on top. I felt an irresistible urge to get down next to her, so I lay down under the blanket behind her.