Strangers: A Novel(38)

All of a sudden, my mind is made up. When he comes back, we’ll talk. I’ll tell him what I’m thinking, all of it.

I turn off the kitchen light. Feeling the cool air, I rub my upper arms and wince. Yes. We’ll talk about that too.

The pain comes so quickly, so unexpectedly, that I only realize what’s happening once I hit the floor.

My head pounds, tears shoot into my eyes, but I don’t need to look around to see who it was that attacked me.

I know it was me, that I bashed my own head against the doorframe. With full force, because by the time I realized what I was doing, it was too late to stop myself.

I prop myself up on my elbows, lift my upper body a little, and immediately slump back down to the floor. The living room becomes blurry in front of my eyes; everything is spinning. I reach up to touch my right temple, and feel a lump starting to swell.

More tears. Not of pain, but despair. What am I doing? Why am I doing it? Why can’t I control it?

I try to push myself up once more. I have to get into the living room, I’m safer there. I don’t know why, but I know it’s true.

But my arms are trembling, the room spins around me again, I lose my balance.

The fact that I fall is unintentional. The fact that I turn my head so that it’s my right temple that hits the floor, on the other hand, is steered by a small, manically gleeful part of myself.

The pain explodes in a white flash of light. It adds to and multiplies itself with the pain that was already there. The scream which reaches my ears, sounding like it’s muffled in cotton padding, must be my own.

Lie there calmly. Don’t move.

That’s the only thought I allow myself once the pain gives me room to think. Stay calm. Stay lying down.

I focus on that. I have to stop it from happening again. Next time I could give myself brain damage, if I haven’t already. Or a fractured skull.

Once again, there’s a small part of me that likes the idea.

I cradle my head in both hands, because of the throbbing pain, but also to protect it.

Wait. I can’t stop crying. Erik is right. He said it, plain and simple. Called it my insane behavior.

Admittedly he doesn’t even know how crazy I really am. A danger to myself, no question. Maybe even to others. Or to him.

Suddenly, the idea that I might have tampered with the boiler myself doesn’t seem so implausible. They were my scarves, the ones which had been stuffed into the exhaust vent. Even if I don’t know anything about the technology or how to tamper with it—maybe it’s a different matter when it comes to my subconscious.

I bite my teeth together. It won’t happen again, it won’t. Slowly, exerting all of my powers of concentration, I crawl out of the kitchen on all fours. And yet I can barely manage to drag my gaze away from the doorframe, which simultaneously entices me and frightens me to death. I actually do almost stumble, practically as soon as I turn my eyes away from it, but this time I at least manage to turn my head to the side, and it’s only my shoulder which bangs against the edge. It hurts, but it’s a partial victory nonetheless; I’ve managed to resist the urge to harm myself more. Limited the damage.

Once I’m in the living room it gets better. Nonetheless, I don’t dare to stand up yet. I don’t trust myself, not even a little.

I straighten up just once, to pull one of the cushions off the couch. I keep the edges and corners of the coffee table completely in my sights, even though they frighten me less than the doorframe.

It feels liberating to lay my head on the cushion. Even if I should feel the urge to hit my head against the floor again—now I won’t be able to hurt myself that badly.

When I straighten the cushion a little, I see a red stain on the yellow fabric. Blood. Not much, but it’s there. Just seeing it gives me a worrying sense of pleasure.

I tightly grasp the cushion and force my eyelids shut. I count my breaths, and hope that Erik will come back quickly, hope that he’ll be here again soon.

Out of the two of us, he poses the lesser threat by far.





18

I can’t even recall how I got to the small park. All my thoughts have been tangled up with Joanna and the past few days.

Clearly my subconscious hasn’t just taken over the control of my legs but the navigation too.

Now I’m sitting on this wooden bench with my eyes closed. I’ve shut out the world. Not that I’m feeling any better for it.

Nadine! All of a sudden her name pops up in my head. Why, of all people, am I thinking about her? Because these thoughts, about everything that’s happened, everything that’s been said, are crushing me? Because I feel the pressing need to talk to someone who knows me really well? Is it crazy that I would think of my ex-girlfriend?

No, I think it’s more because Nadine, despite all her faults, has always been a good listener. And she usually finds the right words to pick me back up when I need it.

At work she’d asked me if I was having problems. She’d seen it in my face. No wonder, really. We were together for almost five years; you learn to read your partner’s moods in that time.

“Are you OK?”

I jump, and find myself looking into the eyes of a white-haired woman. The years are engraved in her face as furrows; deep ones on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, but not quite as pronounced around the eyes. Her expression is one of concern.