bright-yellow bulb began to radiate a thin and sour aura, until red neon darkened to the muddy maroon of cold, coagulating blood.
The late-autumn chill pierced him and scraped like a steel scalpel along his bones.
It was not a night for sleeping alone, but the bed that awaited him would be empty, the sheets as crisp and cool as morgue shrouds.
18
In the lightless room, in bed, staring at the shadowy ceiling, Joanna startled herself by saying aloud: “Alex.” That involuntary word seemed to have been spoken by someone else, and it sounded like a soft cry for help.
The name reverberated in her mind while she contem- plated all the meanings that it had for her.
Misery was her only companion. She was being forced yet again to choose between a man and her obsessive need for an extraordinary degree of privacy. This time, however, either choice would destroy her. She was teetering on the brink of mental collapse.
Her joy in life—and therefore her strength—had been drained by years of compulsive solitude.
Nevertheless, if she dared to pursue Alex, the world would close like a vise around her, as it had done more than once before. In a waking nightmare, the ceiling, the walls, and the floor would appear to draw together from all sides, tighter, tighter, until she was reduced by claustrophobia to unreasoning animal panic. Huddled. Shaking. Unable to breathe. Gripped by an unshakable sense of doom.
On the other hand, if she didn’t pursue him, she would finally have to accept that she would always be alone. Forever. He was her last chance. Resigning herself to unending loneliness was a heavier weight than she could carry.
Either way, whether she reached out to Alex or shunned him, she would be unable to endure the consequences. She was so tired of the struggle of living.
She longed for sleep. Her head ached. Her eyes burned. She felt as though innumerable lead weights encumbered her limbs. In sleep she would be briefly free.
She raised herself from the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. Without switching on the lamp, she opened the nightstand drawer and located the small bottle of the prescription drug on which she depended more nights than not. Although she’d taken one sedative an hour ago, she wasn’t even drowsy. One more couldn’t do any harm.
But then she thought, Why just one more? Why not five, ten, an entire bottleful?
Her exhaustion, her fear, and her depression at the prospect of perpetual loneliness were so grave that she didn’t reject the idea immediately, as she would have done only a day ago.
In the darkness, like a penitent reverently fingering rosary beads, Joanna counted pills.
Twenty.
That was surely enough for a long sleep.
No. She must not call it sleep. No euphemisms. She would hold on to at least some self-respect. She must be honest with herself, if nothing else. Call it by its true name. Suicide.
She wasn’t frightened, repelled, or embarrassed by the word, and she realized that her weary acceptance represented a terrible loss of will. For as long as she could remember, she had been tough enough to face anything, but she had no resources left. She was so tired.
Twenty pills.
No more loneliness. No longer would she have to yearn for intimacy that she could never allow herself to accept. No more alienation. No more doubts. No more pain. No more nightmares, visions of syringes, and grasping mechanical hands. No more.
She no longer had to choose between Alex Hunter and her sick compulsion to smash love when and where it arose. Now the choice was much simpler yet far more profound. For the moment she had to decide only whether to take one more pill—or all twenty.
She held them in her cupped hands.
They were as smooth and cool as tiny pebbles fished from a mountain stream.
19
Alex was accustomed to sleeping as little as possible. If time was money, then every minute spent in sleep was an act of financial irresponsibility. This night, however, he was not going to get even the
The late-autumn chill pierced him and scraped like a steel scalpel along his bones.
It was not a night for sleeping alone, but the bed that awaited him would be empty, the sheets as crisp and cool as morgue shrouds.
18
In the lightless room, in bed, staring at the shadowy ceiling, Joanna startled herself by saying aloud: “Alex.” That involuntary word seemed to have been spoken by someone else, and it sounded like a soft cry for help.
The name reverberated in her mind while she contem- plated all the meanings that it had for her.
Misery was her only companion. She was being forced yet again to choose between a man and her obsessive need for an extraordinary degree of privacy. This time, however, either choice would destroy her. She was teetering on the brink of mental collapse.
Her joy in life—and therefore her strength—had been drained by years of compulsive solitude.
Nevertheless, if she dared to pursue Alex, the world would close like a vise around her, as it had done more than once before. In a waking nightmare, the ceiling, the walls, and the floor would appear to draw together from all sides, tighter, tighter, until she was reduced by claustrophobia to unreasoning animal panic. Huddled. Shaking. Unable to breathe. Gripped by an unshakable sense of doom.
On the other hand, if she didn’t pursue him, she would finally have to accept that she would always be alone. Forever. He was her last chance. Resigning herself to unending loneliness was a heavier weight than she could carry.
Either way, whether she reached out to Alex or shunned him, she would be unable to endure the consequences. She was so tired of the struggle of living.
She longed for sleep. Her head ached. Her eyes burned. She felt as though innumerable lead weights encumbered her limbs. In sleep she would be briefly free.
She raised herself from the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. Without switching on the lamp, she opened the nightstand drawer and located the small bottle of the prescription drug on which she depended more nights than not. Although she’d taken one sedative an hour ago, she wasn’t even drowsy. One more couldn’t do any harm.
But then she thought, Why just one more? Why not five, ten, an entire bottleful?
Her exhaustion, her fear, and her depression at the prospect of perpetual loneliness were so grave that she didn’t reject the idea immediately, as she would have done only a day ago.
In the darkness, like a penitent reverently fingering rosary beads, Joanna counted pills.
Twenty.
That was surely enough for a long sleep.
No. She must not call it sleep. No euphemisms. She would hold on to at least some self-respect. She must be honest with herself, if nothing else. Call it by its true name. Suicide.
She wasn’t frightened, repelled, or embarrassed by the word, and she realized that her weary acceptance represented a terrible loss of will. For as long as she could remember, she had been tough enough to face anything, but she had no resources left. She was so tired.
Twenty pills.
No more loneliness. No longer would she have to yearn for intimacy that she could never allow herself to accept. No more alienation. No more doubts. No more pain. No more nightmares, visions of syringes, and grasping mechanical hands. No more.
She no longer had to choose between Alex Hunter and her sick compulsion to smash love when and where it arose. Now the choice was much simpler yet far more profound. For the moment she had to decide only whether to take one more pill—or all twenty.
She held them in her cupped hands.
They were as smooth and cool as tiny pebbles fished from a mountain stream.
19
Alex was accustomed to sleeping as little as possible. If time was money, then every minute spent in sleep was an act of financial irresponsibility. This night, however, he was not going to get even the
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