The Silent Patient

by Alex Michaelides

I mustn’t color them, twist them, or tell any lies.

after all, I am not the hero of this tale.

I felt uniquely qualified to help Alicia Berenson.

something about Alicia’s story resonated with me personally—

I had internalized my father, introjected him, buried him deep in my unconscious. No matter how far I ran, I carried him with me wherever I went. I was pursued by an infernal, relentless chorus of furies, all with his voice—shrieking that I was worthless, shameful, a failure.

I talked about painful memories and suicidal impulses—but couldn’t feel them.

In my mind, however, the other narrative remained forever a possibility: I might have gone crazy—and ended my days locked in an institution, like Alicia. There but for the grace of God …

As I look back, this was my first professional transgression in dealing with Alicia—setting an unfortunate precedent for what followed. I should have stopped there. But even then it was too late to stop. In many ways my fate was already decided—like in a Greek tragedy.

For some reason, I didn’t want to tell him. I didn’t want Yuri to know anything about her. But that was stupid.

I’ll love him no matter what he does, or what happens—no matter how much he upsets me—no matter how untidy or messy he is—how thoughtless, how selfish. I’ll take him just as he is. Until death do us part.

And that’s what bothered me: despite the years of medication, despite everything she had done, and endured, Alicia’s blue eyes remained as clear and cloudless as a summer’s day. She wasn’t mad. So what was she? What was the expression in her eyes? What was the right word? It was—

How can one drowning rat save another?

I had become—the jealous husband—and the irony that Kathy was currently rehearsing Desdemona in Othello hadn’t escaped me.

I was wrong. It was already too late, though I wouldn’t admit this, even to myself.

I was a little taken aback and immediately alert.

Did she ever discover the man’s identity? Did she tell anyone?

I would have died for Kathy. I would have killed for her.

“Tell me why you started talking again.” “You know the answer.” “Do I?” “Because of you.” “Me?” I looked at her with surprise. “Because you came here.”

she seemed curious to know as much as possible about my past and what had shaped me and made me who I am.

Apart from her obvious inconsistencies and inaccuracies—such as that Gabriel was not shot six times, but only five, one of the bullets being fired at the ceiling; nor was Alicia discovered tied to a chair, but standing in the middle of the room, having slashed her wrists. Alicia made no mention to me of the man’s untying her, nor did she explain why she hadn’t told the police this version of events from the start. No, I knew she was lying. I was annoyed that she had lied, badly and pointlessly, to my face. For a second I wondered if she was testing me, seeing whether I accepted the story? If so, I was determined to give nothing away.

I knew that wasn’t true,

“Elif is dealing,” I said.

A pinprick along the vein—a tiny hole left by a hypodermic needle—revealing the truth: Alicia didn’t swallow a bottle of pills in a suicidal gesture. She was injected with a massive dose of morphine. This wasn’t an overdose.

This was the first time I came face-to-face with Alicia Berenson. The rest, as they say, is history.

FEBRUARY 23 Theo just left. I am alone. I’m writing this as fast as I can. I haven’t got much time. I’ve got to get this down while I still have the strength.

“I want to help you—I want to help you see clearly.”

I remained silent. How could I talk? Gabriel had sentenced me to death. The dead don’t talk.

Somewhere along the way we had swapped places.

That’s the truth. I didn’t kill Gabriel. He killed me. All I did was pull the trigger.

I carefully looked through her belongings. I wanted to make sure there was nothing incriminating—nothing that might trip me up.

If you were cynical, you might say I revisited the scene of the crime, so to speak, to cover my tracks.

I was forced to take action, to silence Alicia forever.

I can still visit her every day and sit by her bed and hold her hand. I haven’t lost her.

That’s the terrible irony: I did all this to keep Kathy—and I’ve lost her anyway.