I was on my side, facing the window.
The sound of a bicycle bell.
I opened my eyes and winced. A slight crack in the curtains, a shaft of sunlight crossing my face.
I turned over.
Dan.
It was Hattie. It was Hattie. All this time it was Hattie.
The days passed and I didn’t get out of bed. Although outwardly everything seemed the same, a repeat of the last twenty-four hours, inside I was aging rapidly, months and years passing on my face, on my skin, in my bones. I was so tired. And no matter what I did, Dan died. He died when he went out, he died when he stayed home. He died every day, at 10:17 p.m. He died because of Hattie. She had started it all, she’d stuck us in this day and ruined all our lives.
Some nights stood out. The night where I’d screamed at him not to go out, not to be run down. Watching his face contort mid-argument, his hand clawing at his chest as he fell to the floor in front of me. Both children stood in the doorway behind, drawn by our shouts. Their screams as he fell.
The night Poppy and I had rowed, the moment she left the house, flying out into the street, Dan running after her. The fear that had flooded my body as I shouted and shouted for her to come back, slipping in the street as I searched for her. What if I found her? What if she was lying in that road? She witnessed the crash that night, screaming as her dad cartwheeled through the air, screaming as I wrapped myself around her, tried to press her to me, to force her not to look.
The nights I spent next to him, lying where he’d fallen, one hand holding his. Feeling the gradual chill of his flesh, the unnatural color of his skin, closing his eyes. He wasn’t Dan anymore; the energy, soul, whatever it was that made him him had left.
The nights when I asked others to come round, begged them to be there, to save him. The retired GP who’d pitied me, his disbelieving face when he watched Dan die in front of him. His desperate attempts to resuscitate him: all useless. Nothing mattered. Nothing made any difference. He always died. I couldn’t stop it. He always died.
The darkness swallowed me whole.
The days became a blur. I wasted them. I didn’t get out of bed. I was barely present. When I bothered to leave our bedroom I didn’t make meals, just ate Twix bars, Pot Noodles, marshmallows, and whatever else I could see. I didn’t bother to wash or dress or do my hair or wear my makeup.
Some days I didn’t even get out of bed or talk. Some days I was angry with everyone and everything, lashing out, screaming abuse: at Dan. At the world. Those days sent me spiraling, head screeching with pain as I cried and Dan paced. Was I having a breakdown? He didn’t know what to do. That night he died in our bed, holding me while I raged at the world.
I was on my side, facing the window.
The sound of a bicycle bell.
I opened my eyes and winced. A slight crack in the curtains, a shaft of sunlight crossing my face.
I turned over.
Other days I got angry in different places. In the supermarket, steered out by security, the crazy bag lady. I got angry at Poppy’s school, humiliating her and Miles as I swore at Holly and Liam in the playground. The teachers threatening to call the police. I got angry on Facebook, writing long, incendiary posts, insulting strangers I’d never met. I messaged the bike lady that I would melt down the fucking bike unless she picked it up NOW. That night he died in the conservatory where he’d miserably retreated after another row with me.
Sometimes I channeled it into my WhatsApp messages and Denise felt the full wrath of my mood.
Other days I got angry on Twitter. It was the perfect forum for my bile.
I tweeted celebrities who I loathed, big brand names for past poor customer service. I tweeted an editor who once turned one of my books down by curtly telling me, “I was offended you thought to send me this book.” That one went viral.
I tweeted the patronizing male Senior Commissioning Editor asking why he only ever commissioned books from male agents he played in a squash league with.
I tweeted the awful big-name author who never quoted on anyone’s books and when asked in interviews to give book recommendations only ever gave the names of dead authors. That one caused a flurry of direct messages, mad-eyed emojis, people doing the dancing emoji, the cry-laughing emoji, and one or two asking me if I was OK and actively trying to get fired.
By the end of the day I couldn’t keep up with the notifications and direct messages and I was totally drunk on the power, and, by that time, also totally drunk.
And it was in this post-Twitter/alcohol frenzy that Dan found me and got really angry. And that night he died, alone, downstairs, while I sobbed in our bed, too self-pitying to go to him.
None of it made a lasting difference: none of it helped me stuff the black hole that was gaping within me.