to realize that the banging was real and coming from my front door.
I pulled the covers over my head but it would not stop.
I desperately wanted it to end but, despairing, I could not think of any way to make that happen other than answering the door.
My legs were shaking and I had to hold on to the wall as I walked.
As I fumbled with the locks, I looked down at my feet—small, white, marble.
A huge bruise, purple and green, bloomed across one, right down to my toes.
I was surprised—I could feel nothing, no pain, and had no recollection of how I had acquired it.
It may as well have been painted on. I finally managed to open the door, but couldn’t raise my head, didn’t have the strength to look up.
At least the banging had stopped. That was my only objective.
“Jesus Christ!” a man’s voice said. “Eleanor Oliphant,” I replied.
When I woke again, I was lying on my sofa. The texture under my hands felt rough, strange,
and it took me a few moments to realize that I was covered with towels rather than blankets.
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