Someone was humming, a man. Who was in my kitchen? I was amazed at how easily the sound traveled.
I was always alone here, unused to hearing another person moving around in my home.
I drank some more water and started to choke, which turned into a coughing fit and ended with unproductive retching.
After a minute or two, someone knocked tentatively on the living room door, and a face peeped round—Raymond.
I wanted to die—this time, in addition to actually wanting to die, I meant it in the metaphorical sense too.
Oh, come on now, I thought to myself, almost amused; just how desperately, on how many levels,
does a person have to wish to die before it’s actually allowed to happen? Please?
Raymond smiled sadly at me and spoke very quietly. “How are you feeling, Eleanor?” he said.
“What happened?” I asked him. “Why are you in my house?” He came into the room and stood at my feet.
“Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine.” I closed my eyes. Neither phrase answered my questions; neither was what I wanted to hear.
“Are you hungry?” he said gently. I thought about it. My insides felt wrong, very wrong. Perhaps part of that was related to hunger?
I didn’t know, so I just shrugged. He looked pleased. “I’m going to make you some soup, then,” he said.
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