I only stay in the kitchen for as long as it takes to make a sandwich, boil an egg, or make tea. The blinds are still drawn, and I leave them like that, but I still make a habit of turning my back to the window. I take great pains to do what needs to be done as quickly as possible. I don’t tarry unnecessarily, never sit down at the table either to eat or write. I take my plate or cup and return to the bedroom, eating and drinking while I continue writing.
I write about the woman and the man, about the downfall that must come, about the time after that. And while I write, it gets dark and then light again, maybe once, maybe multiple times. Yes, almost certainly several times.
Now and then, the sound of the doorbell can be heard throughout the house. I don’t know how many times it happens, am not sure I even notice them all. There’s an on-and-off ringing in my ears. Sometimes the volume increases and exceeds a roar. Usually it goes away if I set down my computer and sleep for a while. The doorbell ringers go away, too. As long as I just don’t open the door, they go away on their own sooner or later. I turned off my phone a long time ago. There’s only me and the text, the text and me.
The light fades away, and we travel into the darkness together.
38
I wake up and look at the clock. It says it’s just after five, and I’m still lying on my back, looking at the ceiling and trying to decide whether it’s morning or evening. I can’t decide. All I can determine is that it doesn’t matter. A dull tone cuts through the silence. There’s something familiar about the sound, I think, and I turn my head from one side to the other. The muscles in my neck and shoulders are as tense as springs. Then I hear the sound again and realize that it’s the doorbell.
This time the person outside doesn’t give up. The doorbell rings multiple times, alternating between short and long chiming. I roll onto my side and feel the bed sag under my weight. The sheet is gray and dirty, and when I look down I see a rust-red spot on the material, the size of a coin. Dried blood on my calf just above my right foot suggests that I scratched the skin there until it bled.
Finally the doorbell stops. I lift my face to listen properly. A strand of saliva remains, running from my chin to the mattress. Then the knocking starts, although “knocking” is the wrong word. “Pounding” is more like it. A series of persistent bangs on the door out there and then, after a while, the doorbell again. I moan and cover my ears, but that doesn’t help. I roll out of bed and stagger out of the bedroom, down the stairs, to the door.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”
It isn’t until after I’ve flung the door wide open and am staring into Leo’s wide eyes that I realize I should have looked at myself in a mirror on my way here.
“Whoa!” he gasps. And then, “So how are you doing, really?”
I run my tongue over my teeth, feel the residue of a coating there. My scalp itches, and I can’t remember the last time I washed my hair. When I cast a quick glance down, I discover the white, sticky splotches on my T-shirt. At some point I must have eaten yogurt or ice cream. I should probably be embarrassed at answering the door in my pajama pants, but the way things stand right now, I’m mostly grateful to be wearing pants at all.
I bring my hand up to my forehead and rub the bridge of my nose. Say something, then! You see how he’s looking at you, right? For crying out loud, say something.
“I’ve… been a little under the weather.”
Leo raises an incredulous eyebrow.
“A little? I haven’t seen you for several days, not since before the weekend. You closed your blinds. You haven’t opened the door no matter how much I’ve rung the doorbell. I thought you were dead in there.”
Leo stares at me for a bit, as if he’s waiting for an apology or an explanation, but when I don’t respond, he changes his strategy, seems to decide to pretend like it’s nothing, as if everything is normal. He brushes aside his bangs and his eyes wander a little.
“That essay of mine for school, you know, the one you read? There’s one thing I wanted to—”
“Leo,” I say, my voice sounding harsh. “I look like a wreck and feel even worse. If you would excuse me—”
I reach for the handle, but he puts his hand on the door to block it, preventing me from closing it.
“OK, never mind. That’s not why I’m here.”
We look each other in the eyes. I wait.
“It’s about my mother.”
I’m not up to this, can’t do it anymore, won’t. Even though he’s still standing in front of me, it’s as if Leo glides farther and farther away, although it’s not him who’s moving, it’s me. I fall back into myself.
“Go home, Leo. Go home to your mother and father. You’d do best to steer clear of me.”
Before he has a chance to react, I lift his hand away and quickly shut the door. I lock it, too, to be sure. But he’s still out there, yelling through the door.
“She’s busy packing some bags, kind of in secret, as if she’s thinking of leaving and, like, abandoning us.”
I head toward the stairs.
He knocks on the door another few times, but I don’t turn back. Is he pulling on the door handle, too, or am I imagining that? The din inside my head is so loud that I can’t be sure.
“Go home, Leo,” I mutter even though I know he can’t hear me.
And then I’m back in my bedroom again. My computer is waiting for me on the bed, silent and terrifyingly irresistible. I get settled, take a few deep breaths, and put my fingers on the keys. And then I write, write about what I’ve known would happen all along, write the end of the story.
39
She stayed for way too long, but all the same the day finally came when she realized that it was time.
After everything that had happened—everything she had been subjected to, everything that was outside her control—the time had come for her to take destiny into her own hands.
There was someplace she needed to go.
There was someone she needed to visit.
After that everything would be over. Order would be restored. The filth that had been would be erased once and for all.
It would happen soon, very soon.
40
Light and dark, dark and light. I turn on the light when I need it and turn it off when it’s time to sleep for a few hours. Then I wake up and resume. My back is against the wall, the pillows behind me. My neck is bent over the screen and my fingers curled over the keyboard.
I’m going to pay for this. That thought runs through my foggy consciousness at some point. I’m going to pay for this with neck and back problems. But neither pain nor concern for my body will stop me. Nothing can stop me. I need to finish the text. I need to understand both the woman and the man who are part of it. If that’s the last thing I do before… before that other thing that needs to be done. My fingers slow at the thought—Yes, there’s no other way forward, I see that now—and then once again they fly across those little black keys.
Then the moment arrives, and I place the final period.
I stare at the screen with dry eyes, having a hard time focusing. I ache all over and am beyond exhausted, but I’m done, finished, through. I roll my numb shoulders in circles and stretch my wrists. Then I glance at the overly cluttered nightstand next to the bed and set my computer on the floor. I have the thought that I need to carry all these cups and plates downstairs, but I’m going to lean back and close my eyes for half a minute first.