‘Thank God,’ I proclaim through cracked lips. On my side, I look up at her towering over me. I didn’t hear her come in. Then again, my head is killing me, and I’ve been lying on the floor for hours, almost a day probably. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I’m soiled.
I don’t care how or when she came in. I’m just glad she’s here.
She stands over me, arms crossed. She must be in shock.
‘Help, please. I fell,’ I annunciate, relief flooding over me as I state the obvious. She’ll know what to do. She’ll help. Despite everything, she’s a good woman. I’m okay now. I’m going to be okay.
‘I see that,’ she replies, arms crossed. She shakes her head. ‘What were you thinking?’
I take a laboured breath, wondering what she’s doing. Can’t we have this discussion later?
‘I know, the slippers were stupid. I was careless. I swear, after this, I’m never going upstairs again. I don’t think I’ve broken anything. But God, I hurt. I’m hurting so badly. Thank God I didn’t take all those pain pills the doctor prescribed. I can get some after you help me up.’
My mouth practically waters at the thought of the sweet relief in pill form. It will flood my veins with numbness, something I need more than ever now. It will quiet my screaming hip, my jagged joints.
I weakly lift a hand towards her, knowing this is going to hurt but thankful my ordeal will be over soon. Amos meows, still right beside me.
She scoffs at me and makes no move to grab my hand.
‘You know I can’t help you,’ she says bitterly, smugly, the look on her face so condescending it enrages me. ‘And he can’t help you either.’
I’m in shock for a moment as she stares. ‘What are you talking about? I know we’ve had our differences, but please. You know I don’t have anyone. Please help me.’ I hate hearing my own voice begging, but I’m desperate.
Surely, she’s just toying with me. But I turn slightly so I can look up at her. She simply keeps grinning.
‘You don’t get it, do you? I can’t help you. You have to help yourself.’ There’s a chilling calmness to her voice, a nonchalance that reveals her apathy towards the situation. Her calculated iciness is effective at revealing the harsh reality: she doesn’t care what happens to me. She doesn’t feel anything at all.
‘Then why did you come over?’ I ask.
She shrugs. ‘Not sure, really. But listen, if you want to get out of this, figure it out. Or don’t. It doesn’t matter to me one way or another.’
And with that, she offers me a weak wave, turns on her heel, and leaves.
The door slams. Amos meows.
I want to cry. I want to rage. I want to kill her, in truth.
What kind of a woman does that? She’s a true monster of the most evil kind, getting pure pleasure from others’ suffering. She’s going to let me die here, let me rot away on my own floor. How can she live with herself? How can she possibly live with herself?
I shouldn’t be surprised, after all I’ve witnessed. I’m not usually so naive. Still, for the months we’ve known each other, I’ve been lulled by the false pretences of a friendship between us, thinking that despite our differences, there was something there. I’d been fooled by the afternoon teas, the conversations, and Jane’s sweet smiles. And, even when her behaviour sunk to all-time lows, even when the vilest side of her arose, I still believed somewhere deep within me that she was good. I’d believed in the possibility of salvation for her, of redemption. I’d had hope that the goodness in her, a goodness I’d detected on the first day, would usurp the evil.
But now I know I was wrong in the worst way, that there is no longer any hope for her. I know that any sense of friendship, of goodness, of possibility for her to start afresh is desecrated for good.
Rage boils and festers inside, a rage like I haven’t felt in a while. It feels good, actually, to have it churning in me, through my blood. It gives my weak, failing body something to cling to.
She won’t win. I’ll show her.
Not only will I survive this and get myself out of this mess, but I’ll also stomp over there and kill her myself.
She’s not getting away with this.
And it is because of my anger that I find a new resolve. I take a few deep breaths and count to ten. I order myself to think, to find the logical answer. I can’t get up, not in this position. But that doesn’t mean I have to do nothing.
I pull myself inch by inch into the living room, my body screaming the entire way. Hours tick by, my throat aching for water. My arms shake with effort, and every millimetre is equivalent to a mile. But I’m stubborn when I need to be, and I’m no quitter. No one, no one is getting one up on me.
I’m pretty sure a day goes by before I get myself to the sofa. Glancing at the prominently displayed picture of him on the mantel, I find an inner strength from deep within. It’s spooky, really.
And finally, by some miracle or sheer will to beat her, I’ve pulled myself up on the sofa and am resting on my back, catching my breath.
Miracle among miracles, I reach into the end table nearby and find the pain pills prescribed weeks ago from the doctor. I pop a few and drift off to sleep, knowing tomorrow isn’t going to be much easier.
But, in a strange way, I’m thankful. Because, in the end, whether she wanted to or not, she saved me after all.