THE LIBRARY

The noise of the dog retching wakes me from my restless dream. By the time I’ve decided whether I feel relieved or disappointed, the day already feels ruined — so I make a crestfallen brew, stare out at the muddy ocean below, and try to remember why staying inside has suddenly become unacceptable.

We all keep staring at the place where our lives are about to come to an end. I think about what he would do if he were here. What he would say. I stare at Samantha and she she stares back, before beginning to slowly shake her head.

I booked a house on the highest point in the bay, a bedroom with writing desk and an ocean view, a veranda to smoke copious amounts of weed on (that I definitely wouldn't be mentioning to the owner), and a geographical distance big enough to warrant a commitment to the cause. But instead of feeling relief, I realised there was one problem - me. I would be there. Alone. Unsupervised.

Although I appear to drive aimlessly, I think my unconscious seeks out personal landmarks, as if performing some morbid memory-lane exposure therapy. I’ve realised there is nowhere I can go where I can escape to that isn’t haunted by the ghosts of some version we once were.

I can’t listen to the radio anymore. There is something insultingly normal about it. I drive in silence instead, my hands gripping the wheel too tightly, the road ahead an endless blur of unlived possibility. My thoughts fragment, skimming over the surface like a stone skipping across water. I have the overwhelming sense that I’m not really here. I’m somewhere else. Somewhere that feels like nothing and everything at once.

I don’t know exactly how many days it’s been. I stopped recording them. My guess is more than three hundred. I’ve counted at least three seasons, based on the weather - out there. Darkness has been the most consistent reminder that what were once normal days have passed. Night-time arrives like an echo of something vaguely familiar — but which now feels less like an invitation to rest and more like an intrusion.

The days roll into each other. I try to keep myself busy with errands and overdue decorating. I’m currently on my eighth coat of Forest Green in the hallway. I attempt my usual precision — he hated decorating, never had the patience — but in the end I’m just slapping it on like a toddler at playgroup. Still no word from the coroner or funeral directors. Apparently, there’s a queue to die. He would have found that funny.