In the dark dynamism of wind and trees and night, I wanted to address Bruno. To tell him he was not alone. “Bruno.” I said his name out loud. I shouldn’t have. “Bruno, I feel that way too.” The act of speaking, of hearing a voice, my own, in this empty house, pulled some kind of stopper. It let something into the room, some kind of feeling. The feeling was mine, even as I observed it, watched myself as if from above, from up near the ceiling of this room, a room I would soon leave forever, as I would leave this false life. There was a girl below, on the bed, in this room. She had tears on her
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