Chapter 3 Chapter 1 of Part Three

walk.Just go.One foot in front of the other.Don't stop, don't linger, don't wait and see.Keep your head up and your eyes looking straight ahead.Blur the faces of passers-by.Pretend you know where you're going.People shouted your name, but it was an echo of an echo, bouncing off the white walls.They are calling for a stranger, not you.don't listen.Listening, talking, doing what you're told, it's all over now.Play your part.Continue to go.Not running, but walking.Go through the double doors, which slide quietly to either side as you approach.Can't cry now.don't cry.You're not crazy, Abby, you're not crazy.Walk past ambulances, cars, porters and their carts.Don't stop now.Step into the wide world.This is freedom, except that you are not free.Not free, not safe.But not crazy, you're not crazy, and you're alive.Now take an inhale and exhale, and move forward.

The sky is amazingly blue, the ground is frozen, and the whole world is cold and sparkling.My cheeks were burning from the cold, my eyes were stinging, and the parts where my fingers were hooked to the plastic bags were numb.My feet, in clumsy, worn-out shoes, clicked on the gravel.I'm standing outside the big Victorian house where we live on the top floor, well, it's Terry's house actually, but I've lived here for almost two years now.I painted our bedroom, I set up the fireplace, and I bought second-hand furniture, full-length mirrors, portraits, rugs, vases, and all the other little things that make this place feel like home.

I cautiously raised my head to look up, and the action gave me a splitting headache.Our residence doesn't look very homely at this time, it looks deserted and empty.The bathroom window was still cracked and unrepaired, and the light wasn't on.The bedroom curtains were drawn, which meant that Terry was either still fast asleep from the hangover that made him dazed and grumpy, or he woke up late for work and didn't bother to draw the curtains.I hope it's the latter. I still tried to ring the doorbell.If I put my ear to the door, I can hear the doorbell ringing far above me with a crackling noise because the battery is dying.Seems like it ran out of power a few months ago.I waited a bit and tried again.I opened the metal mailbox and squinted to see if anyone had come downstairs, but all I could see was an empty fuchsia carpet.

I took out the spare key, which was hidden under the stone, but I dropped it several times with frozen fingers, before I managed to insert it into the keyhole.Even after entering the house, my breath will still rise in the air in the form of mist.I wish Terry had left the heat on, or at least the water was hot enough to take a shower.I'm dirty and cold, and I still feel like everything inside me is loose.What a pathetic way to come home this way.In fact, it is the most tragic. It takes a lot of effort to go up the stairs. I have to pass the residents on the second floor first. I can hear the TV.My legs were heavy and I was out of breath by the time I reached our door.I yelled as I turned the key.Hello?Hello, it's me.I'm back.Silently.Terry?Hello?

There was silence, save for the dripping of the faucet in the bathroom.Suddenly, without warning, a sense of dread came over me, and I had to stop and hold on to the door to keep my wobbly legs steady.I take a deep breath, in and out, until the fear subsides a little, and I go inside, closing the door behind me. I don't know what I noticed first.Maybe it's the chaos: muddy shoes on the living room floor, glasses and dishes stacked in the sink unwashed, dead tulips hanging on the dining table, next to several empty wine cans and an overflowing ashtray .It was messy and the air was stale.But then I saw scattered gaps here and there, empty places where things used to be.First, my CD player, which we always keep on a low table next to the small TV in the living room.But it's no longer a small TV, it's a new big TV.I then involuntarily went to the small desk in the corner of my room to look for my laptop, which was nowhere to be found either.That computer is very old, and it should be called a dinosaur according to the language of the computer industry.But I can't help but grunt when I think about all the data stored in it disappearing. For example, my email address book, I don't have a backup elsewhere.

I'm sitting on the couch next to a pile of old newspapers and Terry's coat.Have we been broken into?Some books also seem to be missing some gaps in the shelves.I try to remember what books there used to be: a large set of encyclopedias on the lower shelf; a few novels, a collection of poetry, and maybe a copy of The Good Pub Guide on the upper shelf .And of course a few cookbooks. I go into our bedroom.The bed was not made, and the messy quilt still had Terry's figure.There was a pile of dirty laundry on the floor, and two empty wine bottles.I drew the curtains to let in the blinding sunlight, opened the windows to feel the cold, fresh air pouring into the room, and looked around.It's hard to see what's missing; you have to see what's missing.But the alarm clock by my side of the bed was missing.The wooden jewelry box I had on top of the cabinet was also gone.Nothing of value in it except a few pairs of earrings, bracelets, a few necklaces, things that people have given me over the years but they are keepsakes and gifts and absolutely irreplaceable.

I open the drawer.The underwear was gone, just a pair of black panties tucked in the corner.A few of my T-shirts are gone, as are a few pairs of jeans and decent trousers and at least three pullovers, including the fancy one I snapped up at the January sale.I pull the closet door open.From what I can see, Terry's stuff is still there, but the hanger on my side is empty.A couple of suits were missing, my black coat wasn't in the closet, neither was my leather jacket.Most of my shoes are gone, only a few pairs of sandals and scuffed sneakers are still on the closet floor.But most of the clothes I wear to work seem to be still there.I looked around in bewilderment, only to find that some clothes I thought were missing were tucked away in a bulging organizer bag at the foot of our bed.

Terry, I yelled.You bastard. I go into the bathroom.The toilet seat was lifted and I gave it a good slap to cover it.No tampons, cosmetics, lotions, perfumes, body sprays, deodorants.I was cleaned out.Even my toothbrush was gone.I open the cupboard.First aid supplies are still there.I unscrewed the cap of a bottle of painkillers, poured two pills and swallowed them without water.My head was banging. It's a dream, I think.A nightmare in which my life is taken from me and I wake up soon.But here's where it gets tricky Where did the nightmare start and when will I wake up?Going back to my old life, as if nothing had happened, everything was just a semblance of my brain burnt out?Or, back on that platform, with a rag stuffed in my mouth, my mind in a state of confusion, just sitting there waiting to die?Or, go back to the hospital and still think the doctors will cure me and the police will save me?

I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove.While I was waiting for the water to boil, I rummaged in the refrigerator because I suddenly felt dizzy from hunger.There wasn't much in the fridge, just a few beers and three or four microwaved meals stacked together.I made myself a sandwich with lettuce spread on white toast, as dry as hospital toast.Then I brew a tea bag with hot boiling water. I haven't finished eating though, still standing by the fridge with a piece of lettuce dangling from my lower lip.At this moment, an idea popped into my mind.Where are my bags, wallets, money, credit cards and keys?I flipped the cushions, rummaged behind the coats on the hangers, opened the drawers.I look in unlikely places, and I look where I've already looked.

I must have had my bag with me when I was taken away.That means he has my address, keys, everything, and I have nothing.nothing.I don't even have a dime.When Dr. Beddoes told me she was going to start a treatment plan to help me get on with my life, I cursed at her and said that if she wanted me to hear from her or anyone connected to the hospital, she would have to first I'm tied up and sedated.Then I strode out of the hospital in the same suit I was found in, trying not to give up my knees, trying not to cry, growl, plead.I refuse a free ride, money, rationale, follow-up with a psychiatrist, or assistance of any kind.I don't need assistance.What I need is for them to bring him to justice and keep me safe.I also need to punch Dr. Beddoes in the smug face.I didn't say anything more.Pointless.The language became like a trap with malicious intentions, popping up to trap me.I apologize to the police, doctors, and that bastard Irene.Everything Beddos confessed turned into evidence against me.But I should take the money.

Not wanting to eat any more sandwiches, I stuffed them in the trash can, which didn't look like it had been cleaned since the last time I was in the house, and took a sip of my cold tea.I went to the window and looked out, pressing my forehead against the cold pane, almost thinking I'd see the man standing on the sidewalk downstairs, looking up at me, smiling. It's just that I have no way of knowing if it was him.He could be anyone.It could be the stiff-legged old man with a disobedient hound on a leash, or the young man with the ponytail, or the good-looking dad in the baseball cap with a rosy-cheeked kid.Treetops, roofs, and car roofs were covered with a thin layer of ice. Passers-by were all wrapped tightly in coats and scarves, and they all lowered their heads to keep out the cold. No one looks up at me standing here.I was at a loss.I don't even know what I'm thinking.I don't know what to do next, or who to turn to for help.I don't know what kind of help to ask: tell me what happened, tell me what to do, tell me who I am, tell me what to do, just tell me I close my eyes and try again for the thousandth time hoping to recall something, anything.Just a glimmer of light in the dark.There was no light, and when I opened my eyes again, I looked at the streets that seemed unfamiliar due to the midwinter. I went to the phone and dialed Terry's.It rang and rang.I tried calling his mobile number but it only went to voicemail. Terry, I said.Terry, it's me, Abby.I have something urgent to talk to you about. Then I called Sadie, but it was just an answering machine, I didn't want to leave a message.I thought about calling Sheila and Guy, but then I'd have to explain everything, and I didn't want to, not yet. I have imagined going home and telling what happened to me.Friends would sit around and listen with wide-eyed eyes.It would be a horror story with a happy ending, a story of desperation, of hope, and finally of evil.I'll be a heroine because I escaped death and told them the story.All misery is redeemed by a happy ending.What should I say now?The police thought I was lying, they thought I made it all up.I know what it means to be suspicious: it spreads.Like an ugly stain. What do you do when you feel dazed, angry, frustrated, terrified, slightly unwell and very cold?I filled a tub full of hot water and stripped off all my clothes.I look at myself in the mirror.My cheeks and hips are hollow; my pelvis and ribs protrude.I was like a stranger in my own eyes.I'm standing on the scale by the counter.I lost six or seven kilograms. I immersed myself in the scalding hot water, pinched my nostrils with my fingers, took a deep breath and sank into the water.When I popped out and shook off the water droplets on my head in the hot steam, someone was yelling, yelling at me.I blink, and an angry face emerges. Terry!I said. What are you doing in there?Are you crazy? He was still wearing his heavy jacket, and his cheeks were smudged with cold.I held my nose and slid back into the water, keeping him out of sight and the voice calling me crazy.