‘I’ll be right here,’ he says.
Then I feel nothing.
I wake to low, orange light. Must be sunset.
So. This is what a broken heart feels like. It’s unique. And now sunset is what a broken heart looks like to me, and it probably always will. Sunset is ruined.
My head hurts, and my body is impossibly heavy. I don’t know if I’ve slept one day or two. Rob is sitting at my desk.
I sit up. I have to push myself with my arms to do it, but I finally manage it. Rob is leaning forward with his forearms resting on his knees like he’s just lifted his head out of his hands.
‘You’re still here,’ I say. The sound of my own voice surprises me. I was half expecting to be mute again, but I guess I’m done with that.
Rob nods and leans back, rubbing his eyes and then scrubbing his face with his hands. I notice my journal is open on the desk next to him.
‘Where did you find that?’ I ask, pointing at my journal.
Rob frowns. ‘Right here. It was on your desk,’ he says. ‘You didn’t know that, though, did you?’ He looks sad.
I cross my legs under the blanket and curl my hands in my lap. ‘Did you read it?’ I ask. He nods. Sighs.
‘I went into your closet to get a blanket last night. It got pretty cold,’ he says. His eyes are darting around everywhere, unable to land. ‘I saw the bloody clothes. The picnic blanket.’ He suddenly tilts forward and drops his head in his hands. ‘There are three pairs of shorts and three T-shirts that are covered in blood.’ He looks up at me, his eyes rimmed with tears. ‘Was it you?’ he whispers.
I stare at him, dumbstruck.
He gestures to the journal. ‘I’m sorry I invaded your privacy, but after I found the clothes . . .’ He trails off, and tears tip down his face. He gathers himself and continues. ‘Three sets of clothes, three women. I had to know.’
‘Had to know what?’ I ask robotically.
Rob stands up, suddenly agitated, and starts pacing, talking more to himself than to me.
‘You were off your medication. You thought you were hunting deer. But you’re on your medication again now. You’ll be OK.’ He faces me. ‘You won’t hurt anyone else, right?’
I swing my legs out of my bed and stand. I’m wobbly, and Rob steadies me. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I say, angry now. And, to be honest – afraid.
He narrows his eyes at me. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
I shake my head.
‘Magda, do you know what you’ve been writing in your journal?’ he asks calmly.
‘I haven’t been writing in my journal,’ I reply. ‘I haven’t written in it in months.’
He picks up my journal and shows it to me. It’s almost completely full of my blocky, minuscule handwriting. My heart speeds up and my skin tightens. I let the pages flop closed. I don’t want to see.
I stopped writing in it. My journal is dangerous.
I’m dangerous.
‘The first time you said that to me, I thought you were kidding, because you had just been sitting right across from me moments before writing in your journal. Do you remember? We were at Taylor’s?’ He waits for me to answer. I guess I know what he’s talking about, but it’s all so vague. I shrug, and he continues. ‘Then I realized that you really didn’t know you were writing in it. Like someone who bites their nails and doesn’t realize they’re doing it.’
I take a step back from him and hit the edge of the bed. He sits next to me and takes my hand.
‘You don’t know you made up a whole story about a family living in the woods, do you?’
My eyes unfocus. It’s like falling. This is impossible.
‘What are you talking about?’ I demand.