Jack is gone, and I feel every moment before this one slipping away, dirt crumbling from a cliff’s edge, deep into the void. No definition of past or future. It feels like a blissful injection of morphine directly into my bloodstream. This is either heaven or insanity, or perhaps the two are the same.
Moments exist in a fog.
No, not a fog.
An opening. A clearness that feels as foreign as anything I’ve ever known.
There is no fear. No sense of time.
Things are finally bright. Clear. A light shining down on a life I’m supposed to have, and the colors overwhelm me. I’ve never seen them before.
I’m vaguely aware of reaching down and cutting the tape from my ankle. I’m aware of Richard’s eyes opening, of me telling him it’s okay. I slowly walk over, feet unsteady, and pick up Richard’s phone. Hand it to him. Tell him to call for help. To get himself to the hospital. I say all these things in a voice I barely hear. It’s like hearing myself talking underwater.
Richard is beautiful. I’ve never noticed that before.
I leave the room.
He calls out, “What’s wrong with you?”
Into the kitchen. To my purse. I don’t even bother to take it with me. Just the keys inside.
I leave the house. The door to the adjacent apartment is closed. There’s no sign of Jack anywhere, but I am certain he is gone.
In this moment, a piece of time that might only last minutes, an hour at most, I have control. I choose what to do.
In the comforting darkness and silence of Manchester streets, I walk.