Instead, I should see it as being evidence. It’s entirely possible that this isn’t the first time he had handled me roughly. Dr. Schattauer’s attempt at an explanation is becoming more and more plausible—that I know Erik, but have suppressed all my memories of him because of trauma. Systematic amnesia.
How bad must it have been; what he had done to me? And—did Dr. Bartsch already suspect? “The most important thing here is you and your safety,” he had said, before expressly offering me his help.
Was it possible that Erik’s problems at work are also rooted in the fact that he’s unable to control his rage?
If that were the case, then it’s not surprising he couldn’t wait to get rid of the company psychologist. Or that he interrupted the man again and again.
Yes, it all paints a logical picture—with a few flaws, nonetheless. I stand up slowly and go over to the window. The silver Audi is still parked in front of the house, meaning that Erik left on foot. So he will be coming back, at some point this evening.
His car is here, but that’s all. Erik’s things—his shoes, his books, his photos, all the small things of daily life—I haven’t suppressed the memory of them, they are simply not there. So how can I believe that we live together? How could he, indeed, how could anyone believe that?
On the other hand, there are some things I’m feeling which I don’t understand. The disappointment that he told people at work about my supposedly confused state, for instance. If a stranger had done that, I don’t think I would have cared. And before, when he had shouted at me and shaken me—I’d been shocked, yes. But if I really listen to my heart, I wasn’t afraid he could hurt me. Unlike the first time he had appeared here in the house, when I’d felt nothing but fear. Cold, overwhelming fear.
That was five days ago, and these days were among the worst I had ever experienced. How can it be that I could have built up trust, in so little time, with the very person who had set off all of these events? Were the two days he had spent sitting by my bed in the hospital enough for that?
I don’t know.
I really don’t know.
I also have no idea what I should do when he comes back. Throw him out again? Talk to him? Lock myself in the bedroom and put the problem off until tomorrow, or get out of here and find a hotel room?
I glance out of the window again. There’s still no sign of Erik. That gives me time to think, to put together a plan.
The half-full glass of water left by Dr. Bartsch is still in the living room, along with the scent of his aftershave.
I know the brand, but can’t think of the name. Too sweet for my taste. And with a note of tobacco which I find nauseating.
Picking up the glass, I go into the kitchen and wash it; all normal actions, and they do me good. I concentrate on the task, and start to feel calmer.
Dr. Schattauer. Maybe I can call her tomorrow—no, it’ll be Saturday. Never mind, I’ll get through the weekend, and then put my energy into resolving this crazy situation. Waiting for things to come to me—that’s not how I do things, and there’s no way I’m changing now.
The pack of shrimp is still lying next to the stove, and by now a small pool of water has formed beneath it on the work surface. They must be at least half-thawed by now.
Earlier, when Erik had offered to cook for me, I had felt relaxed for the first time in five days. Had I been looking forward to the meal and a conversation with him? His company?
Maybe. I’m not sure. In any case, the sight of the packet gives me a melancholic feeling. It’s probably just a result of my tiredness. Exhaustion, really, because I am exhausted, even if I don’t want to admit it, not even to myself.
Maybe I’ll lie down on the couch for a few minutes. With a magazine; I don’t have the concentration span for a book right now.
But what if I fall asleep? And Erik comes back?
The thought unsettles me, but doesn’t scare me. The man had pulled me out of the shower when I was unconscious and risked his own life in the process. He had …
All of a sudden, my mind is made up. When he comes back, we’ll talk. I’ll tell him what I’m thinking, all of it.
I turn off the kitchen light. Feeling the cool air, I rub my upper arms and wince. Yes. We’ll talk about that too.
The pain comes so quickly, so unexpectedly, that I only realize what’s happening once I hit the floor.
My head pounds, tears shoot into my eyes, but I don’t need to look around to see who it was that attacked me.
I know it was me, that I bashed my own head against the doorframe. With full force, because by the time I realized what I was doing, it was too late to stop myself.
I prop myself up on my elbows, lift my upper body a little, and immediately slump back down to the floor. The living room becomes blurry in front of my eyes; everything is spinning. I reach up to touch my right temple, and feel a lump starting to swell.
More tears. Not of pain, but despair. What am I doing? Why am I doing it? Why can’t I control it?
I try to push myself up once more. I have to get into the living room, I’m safer there. I don’t know why, but I know it’s true.
But my arms are trembling, the room spins around me again, I lose my balance.
The fact that I fall is unintentional. The fact that I turn my head so that it’s my right temple that hits the floor, on the other hand, is steered by a small, manically gleeful part of myself.
The pain explodes in a white flash of light. It adds to and multiplies itself with the pain that was already there. The scream which reaches my ears, sounding like it’s muffled in cotton padding, must be my own.
Lie there calmly. Don’t move.
That’s the only thought I allow myself once the pain gives me room to think. Stay calm. Stay lying down.
I focus on that. I have to stop it from happening again. Next time I could give myself brain damage, if I haven’t already. Or a fractured skull.
Once again, there’s a small part of me that likes the idea.
I cradle my head in both hands, because of the throbbing pain, but also to protect it.
Wait. I can’t stop crying. Erik is right. He said it, plain and simple. Called it my insane behavior.
Admittedly he doesn’t even know how crazy I really am. A danger to myself, no question. Maybe even to others. Or to him.
Suddenly, the idea that I might have tampered with the boiler myself doesn’t seem so implausible. They were my scarves, the ones which had been stuffed into the exhaust vent. Even if I don’t know anything about the technology or how to tamper with it—maybe it’s a different matter when it comes to my subconscious.