I am standing in my bedroom in front of the huge windows which look down over the promenade, which runs like a thick black marker line under the constantly undulating blue-grey waves of the sea.
Since I moved in here I have been drawn to the windows, to staring out at the sea, to losing myself in the constant motion of the water. Even when the sea is calm it moves, shifts, reshapes itself. I stand here and think about Dad, about life, about my grandmother.
Seth doesn’t want me to do it. I probably shouldn’t have told him, it was selfish to burden him when we are as we are. And the more people who know, the more it will look like premeditated murder, not privately fulfilling her wishes. Even if she leaves a note, it could be argued that I pressurised her into writing it – that I influenced her to reach the decision and then carried it out. It could be argued that since she has not asked anyone else to help her other than me, a relative stranger, I could have made up the whole thing simply to kill her.
These are the things that Seth has been telling me. His fear is that I could go to prison, possibly for the rest of my life. We talk about it constantly, whispering about it behind closed doors, sometimes arguing because he doesn’t want me to do this, so much so he offered to do it instead. I can’t let him do that. She asked me, and I have seen just a small fraction of her suffering and I know she doesn’t want to be here any more.
I have to do it. I’ve said I will. And I will. There are three days left.