Five hours before she decided to die, as she began walking home, her phone vibrated in her hand.
Maybe it was Izzy. Maybe Ravi had told her brother to get in touch. No.
โOh hi, Doreen.โ
An agitated voice. โWhereย wereย you?โ Sheโd totally forgotten.ย What time is it?ย โIโve had a really crap day. Iโm so sorry.โ โWe waited outside your ๏ฌat for an hour.โ
โI can still do Leoโs lesson when I get back. Iโll be ๏ฌve minutes.โ โToo late. Heโs with his dad now for three days.โ
โOh, Iโm sorry. Iโm so sorry.โ
She was a waterfall of apologies. She was drowning in herself.
โTo be honest, Nora, heโs been thinking about giving up altogether.โ โBut heโs so good.โ
โHeโs really enjoyed it. But heโs too busy. Exams, mates, football.
Something has to give . . .โ
โHe has a real talent. Iโve got him into bloody Chopin. Pleaseโโ A deep, deep sigh. โBye, Nora.โ
Nora imagined the ground opening up, sending her down through the lithosphere, and the mantle, not stopping until she reached the inner core, compressed into a hard unfeeling metal.
*
Four hours before she decided to die, Nora passed her elderly neighbour, Mr Banerjee.
Mr Banerjee was eighty-four years old. He was frail but was slightly more mobile since his hip surgery.
โItโs terrible out, isnโt it?โ โYes,โ mumbled Nora.
He glanced at his ๏ฌowerbed. โ๎ขe irises are out, though.โ
She looked at the clusters of purple ๏ฌowers, forcing a smile as she wondered what possible consolation they could o๏ฌer.
His eyes were tired, behind their spectacles. He was at his door, fumbling for keys. A bottle of milk in a carrier bag that seemed too heavy for him. It was rare to see him out of the house. A house she had visited during her ๏ฌrst month here, to help him set up an online grocery shop.
โOh,โ he said now. โI have some good news. I donโt need you to collect my pills any more.ย ๎ขe boy from the chemist has moved nearby and he says he will drop them o๏ฌ.โ
Nora tried to reply but couldnโt get the words out. She nodded instead.
He managed to open the door, then closed it, retreating into his shrine to his dear dead wife.
๎ขat was it. No one needed her. She was super๏ฌuous to the universe.
Once inside her ๏ฌat the silence was louder than noise.ย ๎ขe smell of cat food. A bowl still out for Voltaire, half eaten.
She got herself some water and swallowed two anti-depressants and stared at the rest of the pills, wondering.
๎ขree hours before she decided to die, her whole being ached with regret, as if the despair in her mind was somehow in her torso and limbs too. As if it had colonised every part of her.
It reminded her that everyone was better o๏ฌย without her. You get near a black hole and the gravitational pull drags you into its bleak, dark reality.
๎ขe thought was like a ceaseless mind-cramp, something too uncomfortable to bear yet too strong to avoid.
Nora went through her social media. No messages, no comments, no new followers, no friend requests. She was antimatter, with added self-pity.
She went on Instagram and saw everyone had worked out how to live, except her. She posted a rambling update on Facebook, which she didnโt even really use any more.
Two hours before she decided to die, she opened a bottle of wine.
Old philosophy textbooks looked down at her, ghost furnishings from her university days, when life still had possibility. A yucca plant and three tiny, squat potted cacti. She imagined being a non-sentient life form sitting in a pot all day was probably an easier existence.
She sat down at the little electric piano but played nothing. She thought of sitting by Leoโs side, teaching him Chopinโs Prelude in E Minor. Happy moments can turn into pain, given time.
๎ขere was an old musicianโs clichรฉ, about how there were no wrong notes on a piano. But her life was a cacophony of nonsense. A piece that could have gone in wonderful directions, but now went nowhere at all.
Time slipped by. She stared into space.
A๎er the wine a realisation hit her with total clarity. She wasnโt made for this life.
Every move had been a mistake, every decision a disaster, every day a retreat from who sheโd imagined sheโd be.
Swimmer. Musician. Philosopher. Spouse. Traveller.ย Glaciologist. Happy.
Loved.
Nothing.
She couldnโt even manage โcat ownerโ. Or โone-hour-a-week piano tutorโ.
Or โhuman capable of conversationโ.
๎ขe tablets werenโt working. She ๏ฌnished the wine. All of it.
โI miss you,โ she said into the air, as if the spirits of every person sheโd loved were in the room with her.
She called her brother and le๎ย a voicemail when he didnโt pick up.
โI love you, Joe. I just wanted you to know that.ย ๎ขereโs nothing you could have done.ย ๎ขis is about me.ย ๎ขank you for being my brother. I love you. Bye.โ
It began to rain again, so she sat there with the blinds open, staring at the drops on the glass.
๎ขe time was now twenty-two minutes past eleven.
She knew only one thing with absolute certainty: she didnโt want to reach tomorrow. She stood up. She found a pen and a piece of paper.
It was, she decided, a very good time to die.
Dear Whoever,
I had all the chances to make something of my life, and I blew every one of them.ย ๎ปrough my own carelessness and misfortune, the world has retreated from me, and so now it makes perfect sense that I should retreat from the world.
If I felt it was possible to stay, I would. But I donโt. And so I canโt. I make life worse for people.
I have nothing to give. Iโm sorry.ย Be kind to each other.
Bye, Nora
