He hears something outside the front doorthe cat is back surprisingly quickly,
scraping its paws by the threshold and sounding like it’s been caught in a steel trap.
As if it knows what’s going through Ove’s mind. Ove can understand that it’s disappointed in him.
He can’t possibly expect it to understand his actions.
He thinks about how it would feel, doing it this way.
He has never taken any narcotics. Has hardly even been affected by alcohol. Has never liked the feeling of losing control.
He’s come to realize over the years that it’s this very feeling that normal folk like and strive for,
but as far as Ove is concerned only a complete bloody airhead could find loss of control a state worth aiming for.
He wonders if he’ll feel nauseated, if he’ll feel pain when his body’s organs give up and stop functioning.
Or will he just go to sleep when his body becomes unfit for use?
By now, the cat is howling out there in the snow. Ove closes his eyes and thinks of Sonja.
It’s not that he’s the sort of man who gives up and dies; he doesn’t want her to think that.
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