Capulet

I felt as if I were aboard a submarine, hundreds of meters under the sea. But out of the deep, I heard him close the front door. Damn it, can’t I do anything right? I can’t even off myself like a proper person. I heard him call me, heard his footsteps as he entered the living room, as he saw the laptop I’d discarded on the floor. I heard him open it, heard the playing of fingers on its keys, the realization that I knew. “Fuck . . . Lilja, where are you?”

I didn’t want to answer him. I wanted to lie quiet and still. I wasn’t sure if I could talk. My throat was so dry and painful and I was so weak, I didn’t believe I could make a sound even if I willed it. I heard him walk through the apartment, search the bedroom, the living room again, the kitchen, and the bath. He knelt beside me, pulled me into his arms, and cried. He lifted my wrist, repeating, “What did you do?” But he’s not an idiot; he knew I wasn’t dead. He shook me until I moaned an incomprehensible something. I couldn’t look him in the face. I had no language for what I had tried to do.