No sooner than I formulate the thought, I hear myself giggling, in a way I myself could only describe as insane. But is that a surprise? Given all the nonsense my mind’s coming up with?
My fiancée tried to murder me; I only survive by chance. On the way to the hospital, some piss-drunk asshole catapults me off the road and I get into a serious accident. And the first thought that comes into my goddamn mind is that I was lucky?
I try to get to my feet, but then pause. There’s something over there. A parked car, and someone’s getting out of it. There are about thirty feet between me and the vehicle; its motor is still running, the headlights are on. Two headlights, I’m relieved to see.
My eyes scan the surrounding area for the other car, the one that forced me off the road. Nothing. It’s gone.
The person is approaching me; the light behind gives him or her a dark, two-dimensional appearance, like they were cut out of paper.
The figure stops just in front of me. I still can’t make out a face.
“What happened?” A man’s voice, young-sounding, and panic-stricken. “Are you hurt?”
“Yes,” I answer. “But I don’t think it’s too serious.”
“Well, it all looks pretty horrendous. I’m going to call an ambulance, OK? And the police. You wait here. And don’t move.” He raises a hand as if he had to reassure me somehow. “I … I’m just going to go back to my car, my phone’s in there. Just a moment…” He hastily turns away, runs back to his car.
My arm throbs, a reminder. My arm. Ambulance. And the police. What am I going to tell them about the wound? I know the answer even as I’m formulating the question in my mind. It’s so easy.
I just had an accident.
I feel my arm. The fabric of my shirt sleeve is wet. I grasp it around the shoulder, dig in my fingernails, and yank it strongly, tearing the seam. The second time I pull, I tear the fabric apart as well, baring my upper arm. But now there’s the dressing to deal with. I loosen the end and start to unravel it. The white-hot stabbing pain in my arm is back. It takes all of my energy, but then it’s done. I glance hurriedly over to the vehicle on the side of the road. The young man is standing next to it, still on the phone.
I realize that I’m in the process of covering up Joanna’s attempted murder. Which answers the question from just now once and for all. But what am I going to do with the stupid bandage? If I leave it around here somewhere, someone’s going to find it. Into the pocket of my pants, then, and I’ll see where I can get rid of it later on. I have to stretch a bit, but then the piece of cloth vanishes into my pocket.
Why I’m covering for Joanna after she tried to kill me is something even I don’t understand. Maybe it’s a reflex. An urge to protect her, still.
“The police and the ambulance will be here shortly.”
I hadn’t even noticed that the young man had come back.
“Thanks,” I say in a strained voice, hoping he’s right. I need a shot of painkillers. A tablet. Something.
About ten minutes later, the police and the emergency ambulance arrive together. While I’m still being hoisted onto the gurney, one of the two uniformed officers asks me how the accident happened. I tell him about the headlights behind me, about the first collision, which I managed to get under control, and about the second one, that swept me off the road.
No, I wasn’t able to make out either the car make or the color. No, couldn’t make out the license plate either.
“Maybe it was some drunk,” I tell the officer.
“Yeah, maybe. Have you been having any problems with anyone lately? An altercation, maybe?”
“What? I don’t understand.” And I genuinely don’t.
The man cocks his head. “Could it be that someone deliberately tried to force you off the road?”
I feel the pain in my arm. Think of Joanna. Joanna?
I just manage to stifle the yes before falling back into darkness.
23
I almost can’t bring myself to go back into the kitchen, but I know it’s unavoidable. Erik has been gone for a good ten minutes now, and since then I’ve been cowering in the hallway with my hands pressed against my eyes. Sobbing. Thinking. And none of it has helped even in the slightest.
I would have killed him. With the knife that haunted my thoughts from the very first evening Erik came into my life. And today it was as though it took on a will of its own, seeking its target without any help from me whatsoever.
No. Don’t be a coward, not now. Don’t make up laughable esoteric theories. It was me and me alone who did it; I had fixated on the spot on Erik’s back that looked the most promising, where the knife would cut the deepest.
And I’ll take responsibility for it. I stand up, immediately see black spots flickering in front of my eyes, am even pleased about it for a few seconds. If I faint now, I wouldn’t have to think anymore, maybe never again …
But I stay conscious. I’m not the type to faint easily. Holding my breath, I take a step into the kitchen.
It’s a battlefield. Blood is splattered across the worktop and walls, and there’s a smear of it across the front of the fridge too, from where Erik was leaning against it. But most of it is on the floor.
The knife is lying where I dropped it, on the cutting board right next to the tomatoes.
I see it all, and don’t understand any of it. All I know is that I can no longer trust myself, because the next time I might shove some child into the street or drive the car into a group of pedestrians or something like that. It’s understandable that Erik didn’t want me to take him to the hospital. It’s better that way.
I get a cloth and bucket from the cupboard containing the cleaning products, fill the bucket with hot water, and start washing away the blood. After that, I scrub the floor with a brush as well, cleaning it more thoroughly than anyone ever has before.
It’s not because I’m hoping to hide what happened; on the contrary, I’m assuming that Erik will report me as soon as his wound has been seen to. I’m even happy about that in a way. If they lock me up, I’ll no longer be solely responsible for myself. I’ll be kept away from everyone, able to breathe, and I’ll no longer have to be afraid I could hurt someone. Not even myself.
I clean the kitchen walls until my arms hurt and there’s no longer a trace of blood to be seen in the entire room. After that, I find myself wanting to carry on; the task is stopping me from having to think, saving me from the images, the guilt, the unspeakable fear of this … thing in me, that has moved me to …
The knife. I still haven’t cleaned the knife. It’s in the sink and has left a red smear on the silver basin. The stain on the blade shows how deeply it cut into …
I only just make it to the toilet in time. I throw up until my stomach is empty and the exhaustion numbs my senses. Now I can wash the knife; I’m able to bear the feeling of having it in my hand. Fear that I could suddenly turn it on myself and plunge it into my stomach or neck takes hold of me for a moment, but passes quickly.