Coming Undone by Terri White (ebook reader with highlight function .TXT) 📗

the kitchen and help myself to a drink. I drink it fast; there’s another. I do what feels like the most unnatural act in the world and walk into an almost closed circle of people already talking. They warily make a few inches for me to stand in and continue talking while I nod, one hand holding another drink, the other gripping the forearm with all my might to keep me present, to stop me smashing up everything around me while I scream.

I see the alternative events unloading in my mind as I nod, smile, make uh-huh noises. Eventually, manners kick in. They ask me what I do. There’s an eye roll at the word ‘journalism’. Oh, those magazines, they say, eyebrows raised, foreheads tight.

A mutual friend and his wife arrive, and I take solace with them and the bottle of tequila which someone might have bought or someone might have just found. I remember a shot, two shots and then black.

I wake, fully dressed, on top of my sheets. I roll my tongue over inside my teeth, which are sticky. I can taste, feel, sick. I roll over on my back, grab my phone, see with relief that I’m not late for work, but then I’m hit with instant panic as I realise, know, that Dave isn’t there. I look over at the sofa to be sure and it’s empty, blanket folded up on top of the single pillow. There’s a brick in my chest. I can’t remember, but I know something bad happened. I did something bad.

The thing about blackouts is that, more often than not, the memory is gone forever. I spend years and years trying to retrieve them, to fish them out with a hook from the tightest crevices and recesses of my mind. The memory, the exact words and shapes and acts may not be there – what I did with my mouth, my hands, my feet, my legs – but the knowledge that I’d done something, something bad, is always with me. The bit of my brain that decided not to record the memory isn’t going to let me off the hook that easily. I carry the stink of shame and embarrassment and panic around with me until I see the place or the person I picked it up.

I call Dave. He answers.

‘Where are you?’ I ask.

‘Do you not remember?’

‘No.’

He tells me, matter-of-factly, that I ruined his party. That I got drunk, shouted, I might have cried. That I’d fled and told him he couldn’t stay at mine. He’d had to find somewhere else to sleep and is currently in Brooklyn.

Everything gets very still as he talks. I notice dust, the air carrying bits of my skin past me as I stare out of the window. I want to jump through it.

He meets me after work in an Indian restaurant in the Village. I barely taste my food as I apologise over and over, and though he says the right words with considerable grace, he can’t meet my eyes. I’ve never felt more ashamed, hated myself more. The bodies continue to pile up.

CHAPTER 16

It’s October when warning comes of the impending Hurricane Sandy – the post-tropical cyclone which will go on to cause the deaths of seventy-one people in America. I have no idea what I’m about to experience or how to prepare for it. I think of soft British winds and scattered showers, and I go to the bodega on the corner and buy supplies: crisps, biscuits, two apples, cakes and two candles. I don’t buy booze I never allow myself to drink at home – a decision I will come to regret. We’re sent home early from work just before it’s declared unsafe to travel.

I make it home as the wind starts howling with a roar and the rain pounds down. I sit watching events unfold on television, idly flicking between all of the channels showing the same thing. Then: nothing. No noise, no light. The electricity goes out and my apartment is plunged into silent darkness. I start texting friends back in the UK, but a few minutes later, the bars on my cell phone disappear and service goes completely. I go to the toilet and flush, but no water rushes up and out. I try the sink: there’s just the squeaking of the taps against the dry spout.

I realise I have no phone reception, no access to email or the internet and no TV. I have no choice but to wait it out, alone, in darkness, as the storm rages on and on outside. For how long, I have no clue. I burn through my two candles in hours, ration out the meagre food. I lie on the bed, in total darkness, the trees outside hurtling towards my windows, never following through on their threat. I make no effort to roll out of their way, just in case the worst happens. The streets outside are empty, pitch-black. The wind picks up papers, trash and takes them careering through the air. I watch them as they dance. I have no clue, at any point, what time it is. With little to do but sleep, I wake not knowing if it’s a new day or still the same one, what’s dawn and what’s sunset.

I hear what I think are voices, chanting, chanting, chanting. Or are they thoughts? I hear them in my dreams and when I’m awake, when the wind blows and the windows rattle and when it’s perfectly still. I see shadows curl up and crawl the walls, their body blending with mine on the ceiling.

On what I think is the fourth day, the wind has stopped and I decide to venture outside, hoping it’s safe. I feel my way down the stairs of my building in complete darkness, the electricity still off. As I open the door to my building and step outside, I’m relieved to see handfuls of people wandering outside, though they looked