I forgot to turn off the house’s lights; by the time we got there, it was a lighthouse lost in a sea of rain. I couldn’t smell the olive tree anymore, only the rising scent of moist soil. Kim went ahead and got in the bathroom. Meanwhile, I grabbed warmer clothes and another wad of bills. The rain wouldn’t stop its slaughter. I lay on the couch and scrutinized the black screen of the TV while waiting for her. There was statics, but they weren’t coming from the TV, kinda funny. Her footsteps creaked the wood of the stairs, and soon enough, after opening again the umbrella, we went into the car. My eardrums hurt from the incessant beating of the droplets on the car’s roof.

Night fell before we arrived in town. It was as though someone had veiled the world as suddenly throwing a rag on it. Pitch-black clouds veiled the world. The mechanical shouts of the engine were as mute as ourselves, and the wheels struggled to roll across large puddles. Every now and then, the only sound louder than the rain was the whooshing when we stumbled across these large puddles. I still remembered the restaurant I saw, which was not really one but rather a small dinner. Yellow light filtered through the fogged-up windows of the dinner.

Finding a place to park sure was easy since there was a sole car apart from ours. And again through the blurry glasses, silhouettes were scarcely of five, let alone moving. When Kim entered first, I remembered she still wore her dress; fuzzily reverberating light, it was as striking as her bruises under yellowish lamps. Two of the three waitresses looked at us like some fools, and they immediately directed their stares at me after a second. The third one went to our table after we sat down.

Kim was sinking in her seat opposite to me, while her head leaned low, staring at the slightly dirty table, and hiding her hands fiddling with the bottom of her dress beneath it. I could hardly meet the eyes of the waitress and wandered my eyes everywhere else they weren’t supposed to be. Kim muttered her order, what I heard to be some salad with a milkshake, and I ordered a plate of ribs with some fries plus a coffee. The waitress noted all that while staring at me like some shit who beat women, and she tapped the tip of her shoes more often than some sort of tick. Irritated, probably.

When she finally stopped scribbling on her paper, she clicked her tongue and flew out of there in an instant. Kim was still lowering her head and fumbling the end of her dress. Her bruises were an elephant in the room. A couple, a gal in a loose t-shirt, her boyfriend’s I thought, and the guy, looked at us from the other side of the dinner; I could hear the gal repeating ‘asshole’ with other comments as kind, and ‘like…’ in between almost each of her words. The guy just nodded in silence but stared at me with the same nasty air. Her head seemed to drop lower and lower.

Their mean, understandable, mute insults were strangely audible in the silence of the rain. I tried to get my mind somewhere else by watching the drips racing on the windows. But every stare was directed at me. Kim’s hand clenched harder and harder, making the dress’ fabric rustle louder and louder. Her lips closed tighter and tighter, her eyes, narrower and narrower. Then, she snapped.

“WHAT ARE YOU ALL STARING FOR?” she shouted, scattering her spitefulness amid the dinner. “DO YOU HAVE A FUCKING PROBLEM WITH MY BRUISES? THEN I’LL TELL YOU ALL! MY MOTHER DID THESE! YEAH, THAT BITCH BEAT ME! AND I’M SO GLAD SHE’S DEAD, SHE’S SO FUCKING DEAD! DEAD!—THIS GUY,” she pointed at me, “KILLED HER, HE KILLED THAT OTHER ASSHOLE THAT WAS MY STEP-FATHER TOO! HE’D KILL ANY OF YOU IF YOU KEEP STARING, HE’LL FUCKING KILL EACH ONE OF YOU. SO COULD YOU ALL MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS AND LEAVE ME ALONE?”

She was standing when her outburst ended; strangely enough, her voice didn’t raise that much, rather, her tone had something very sharp and fundamentally mean. She realized what she just said and looked at me with her despairing eyes. She didn’t even wait for me to get out of there. I followed her as soon as her feet moved.

“AAAAAAHHHHHH!” she squeaked in the car while grasping her head with her two hands.

Her breath hastened and she curled up in a ball. I started the engine, without saying anything; fuck, I didn’t know what to say. She started sobbing, so quietly that her tears evaporated up in the beating of the rain. I could hear her being trembling out of cold, and out of something else. Maybe she wanted to disappear. But she remained.

Somber. The hill was a singular shadow, darker than the rest of the world and forming a bump tending to the sky. Rain fell so much that when the headlights hit its droplets, it looked like stream of vapor escaping a kettle under the kitchen’s light. She was still sobbing. I heard her sniffs from time to time.

And as soon as I stopped the car, she rushed to her room; I listened to a slamming door from my seat. After a while, staring at the weeping clouds that wouldn’t stop, I decided to get some sleep. I didn’t bother to open up the umbrella. No bulb was turned on in the house; she didn’t take the trouble to light them up. It felt hollow when the clicking sound of the switching echoed within the rooms. I turned them off as soon as I realized that.

So I went for my room, closed the door, and sank into my bed. The room was dull. Invariantly black, only with some shades of grey gushing from that lonely window. Turning away from it and closing my eyes, I couldn’t tell the difference. I ended up falling asleep.

The following morning, the sound of breaking glass woke me up. I rushed down the stair for investigating that sound and instead met with Kim standing in the kitchen. She had just thrown my bottle of rum on the ground, next to its remains. She was in her deep purple pajama and realizing it didn’t shine bright, I could see beads of rain invariantly falling upon the world from the window.

“How many days left?” she asked. Her voice didn’t carry much concern, or even energy. There were very faint pockets beneath her eyes. Her skin was pale, her bruises seemed darker with such background. She didn’t seem well.

“Four with today,” I replied. “You’re fine?”

“It’s just a cold,” I believed her.

“This house’s really bad-conditioned, and you soaked up in rain yesterday. No wonder you’d catch a cold.”

“I know,” she simply replied. “Leave me alone.”

The last part of her reply offended me more than I expected. I felt my brows arching down. She flew to her room before I could say something else. I didn’t hear her lock the door, so I went up to it, stood before it, but didn’t resign myself to knock. I couldn’t. I left her alone and sank back into my bed. There, I stared at the ceiling longer than any human being would normally do. Something bugged me with it. After a while, and I say a while, I went back to her door. I raised my hand, ready to knock, but I ultimately just barged in.

She didn’t bother to shut up and stop weeping like a crybaby. I thought she didn’t notice my sudden entrance, but she just couldn’t care more. Curled up like a ball, tucked in her blanket and hiding away her being, she wanted to disappear. Rain rudely interrupted each one of her cries, nobody seemed to care. I sat just before the bed, leaning my back against it, and waited for her to lighten up and cease. But she wouldn’t. I closed my eyes and breathed as though I just choked; in silence, of course, not actually loudly. Her weeps muted very gradually, so slowly that when I heard nothing more than a murmur, I was alarmed to the core.

I got up on a whim and spared her a glance. She sniffed once and I sighed in relief.

“You fine, Kim?”

“It’s just a cold.”

“Is there something I could do to help you?”

“There’s nothing you can do to help me.”

“Let me know if there’s anything.”

She resumed sobbing in that same mute tone. I sat by the bed again and closed my eyes.

“Why did you kill my parents?” escaped from her blanket after a while.

“Why? ...I dunno. Maybe I just realized that I didn’t have that much time left and I wanted to help you. You’re the only one who seems sane in this world—even just your silence felt so much saner than their rambling—even if we didn’t speak together before, I knew somewhere in my mind that you understood how it felt like living in a mad world. Funny—we could be the madmen and them the sane, or the other way around, but it wouldn’t change a damn single thing. Point is, it seemed like the only thing I could do to ‘repay’ your understanding. I’m miserable, ain’t I? I feel the duty to repay someone who understands me. But during these two last days, I realized what I did was utterly futile—no, don’t take that in the wrong way. I mean, killing your parents didn’t undo the atrocities done to you-”

“But even my bruises are a very tangible proof of it,” she replied, knowing what I was about to conceal next. “…Like I said, I’m glad you killed them. Being ‘glad’ undo nothing, but I still was and am, glad. It was futile—I agree—like any vengeance, but the absurd joy I got out of it, even as meaningless as it was, felt like the only real thing I’ve experienced in a while.”

I didn’t know what to say next; we both knew we talked too much. I felt more and more drowsy so ended up sleeping for a while.

When I woke up, the rain had calmed down a little. Instead of pitch-black, the clouds were already grayish. It rained as though the cloud didn’t have the will to weep. I got up to take a look from the window. But when I turned my head to the bed, Kim was nowhere to be seen in the room. Did she really go somewhere in the house with that fever?

So I started looking for her across the house but found nothing. The scattered pieces of glass were still in the middle of the kitchen’s tiling. She wasn’t laying on the couch before the TV, or seated by the living room, or brewing olive tea in the kitchen, or doing laundry in that small room where were stocked the cleaning material, or taking a shower in the bathroom, or kicking me in that dull room, or standing before the limitless blue of the sea and the sky while her dress swayed and shone, or seating in the car while mindlessly peering out from her window, or reading French poetry at the dining table.

‘I’ll never let you see,’ echoed throughout the house.

It didn’t sound quite right. Not dissonant, but muffled and distant. The attic. I finally remembered we had an attic. As I got nearer and nearer to the roof, I could more properly hear the noises in background to the music. I grabbed the rope to open its trapdoor and a rustic stairway revealed itself to me.

Dust was incrusted in its wood. It creaked every time I landed my foot. And up there, there was only more dust. Hundreds of boxes were clumsily arranged, some stuck in corners, some tucked onto one another, some falling into another, some open, some closed… It was pretty dark, with only a hastily improvised bulb serving as a lamp for lighting, which didn’t even work, probably burnt.

At its far end, there was a sole, singular rectangular window, no wider than two heads, from which all light poured onto the dust. I could see an old record player with the single play of A-ha’s ‘Crying in the rain’ under it, echoing throughout the house. The noises blended with the sound of rain.

And before it, she was watching the dying world outside.

She was sitting above one sturdy box. Her hands were visibly filled with dust and she was obviously the one who had played the song. She seemed to enjoy herself with it. She wasn’t surprised when I got closer, she just patted the other box next to her to tell me to sit down. I did as she said.

Then, I noticed there were some blue stains on the tip of her fingers. And right in front of her feet was some blank papers forming a messy hill, the fountain pen without its cap, and the deep indigo ink with its lid open and evaporating like the blue sea. Again, I noticed she was hiding a sheet in her left hand, while I was at her right side. It was neatly folded into her palm.

Without even a word, she put her head on my shoulder and looked outside. I didn’t know what to do, so I left her rest there. I looked outside too; really, the world seemed like dying. All dull and greyish. The frame of the window delimited very well the carcass of the earth. We stayed motionless for a while. Kim slept at some point and I felt her head heavier on my shoulder. So, very gently, I tried to gather her in my arms and carry her like a princess. But then she opened her eyes, and closed them in the same instant. While feigning to be asleep, I was still trying to lift her somehow.

Once in my arms, she yanked a bit nearer to my chest. She was cold. She said she had a cold, but she truly was cold. And her skin was covered in sweat. Although she dearly held the folded paper, still hiding it away. But her fast heartbeats distracted me from that. As near as she was, I could feel each one of her pulses. I swear I’ve seen a smile flash across her face. I didn’t dislike it. She was still pretending to be asleep while I went back to the room where she slept. It wasn’t easy to grasp the doorknob like that, but I managed somehow.

I tucked her in her blanket, and for the briefest moment, an intense feeling reached my heart. I wanted to be next to her so badly. Tearing her out of my arms felt colder than she was.

“Hey,” she very mildly called out. “Just this once, could you sleep with me?” she wasn’t sleeping.

So, I crept inside the bed. It felt really warm when I got in the blanket. There was a smile that I’d never seen from her on her face; it was kind, very kind, and beautiful, and genuine. I felt like I could die watching her face and leaving the world with a sole regret: her. You see, before all this, I could’ve probably died without a single regret, and that’s a shame. Dying without regrets basically means you’ve done nothing out of and in your life, dying with some means you’ve had a decent life with your share of good and bad things, but dying with a sole regret means you had a shitty life, but just before it ended, you finally had something to lose.

I desperately tried to return her the same smile. I could’ve died. Instead, I felt drowsier and drowsier while her smile invariably hung there. Her face imprinted in my retinae as the sun rays escaping the clouds reflected off her face. I sank deeper and deeper, closed my eyes tighter and tighter…

Her smile was the last thing that remained.

By the time you’d be reading this, you must’ve guessed; she died the following morning. I tried to shake her a little when I woke up, a little bit more, harder, harder, and harder, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. She looked very humane and alive, that something was there.

Death had saved her.

She didn’t move the slightest. Of course. Her smile was already gone. Only peace was on her face. She was as cold as before. It wasn’t a cold.

The folded paper. It shone blank white under the morning rays. The rain had stopped, only staying clouds. It shone blank white like the morning dew. I was scared to touch her. She was cold. It burnt when I touched her. Awful disgust and fear. Pain. I couldn’t breathe properly. I wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear. But I remained. She was gone. Not there. Gone.

I wanted to puke nasty things. I felt frantic again.

I snatch the paper from her dead hands. I didn’t want to unfold it. I shouldn’t have. But you should, I’ll leave it with this.

‘I’m very sorry.

I know I’ll be dead when you’ll read this. I wanted to tell you why I’m so sure I’ll die in the first place; my hands are shaking while I’m writing this; I sweat like hell; I’m cold; my heart is racing; my nose just bled; my head hurts so much, and if I could, I’d just grab your shotgun and blow up my face; I can’t walk anymore, just sit like this; everything’s blurry; everything’s distant like in some kind of nightmare; everything hurts; the bruises hurt.

These already happened to me before, two times. The first time, I think it was when I was 9, you know, when my father tried to kill me. It has to do with that huge scar you saw. And when I say he almost killed me, I mean, the doctors said I lost about half of the blood in my body. Of course, I passed out, but right before I did, it was exactly the same feeling.

The second time, it was when I was 13. That was the first time my stepfather raped me. He barged in my room, just like that, around 6 of the evening, he grabbed my hands, I started screaming, my mother wouldn’t come, I screamed harder, he put his mouth in mine, he threw me against the wall, I shut up, he slipped his hand below, I started sobbing, ‘SHUT THE FUCK UP’, I sobbed quieter, he threw me against the other wall, I stopped sobbing, he carried on, he took off his pants, [an indigo stain redacted this part], [another stain], [another one], [another], ‘If you tell anyone, I’ll kill ya, or I’ll fuck ya again, then I’ll kill ya. I’m sure no one’d want a raped dead body to bury, no one will accept ya when ye’ll be dead’, he left the room, I sobbed again, my mother went in, I tried to hide under the blanket, she threw it away, she grabbed my hands, she threw me against the wall, against the other one, I shut up, she took a rod, she lifted it up in the air, [an indigo stain redacted this part], [another stain], [another one], [another], the bruises wouldn’t disappear, I didn’t sob anymore.

It was exactly the same feeling the days after. My stepfather brought me to the hospital and lied that I fell down the stairs. They just believed him. The doctors said it was internal bleeding, and I lost about half of the blood in my body again. It never happened again after that, it bothered them too much. My mother didn’t beat me as much then. But it happened again recently.

You guessed it? Blood’s escaping within my flesh. And I think I lost half of it already.

Of course, I could just shout to you that I’m dying, and we’ll go to the hospital and I’ll be fine. But I won’t.

I’ll die, either way. You’ll be gone some days later anyway and then I’ll kill myself too. Just right under that olive tree, so that it can have a friend for the first time in its life. I can’t stand seeing it standing there alone.

I just want to disappear. That’s the only way everything can be undone. No more bruises and no more me.

But there’s something I wanted to tell you. Thank you. I think I kind of understand what you meant with beauty now. These two last days were filled with beauty. The house, the lone olive tree, the beach, all these are beautiful. You called me beautiful despite all the bruises and the scars. I was so happy you did, so happy. At some point, I just stopped my thought and felt happy. I seriously thought we could live like that for eternity, together in that house. That’s beauty, right? Right… But I couldn’t stand it. I can’t. No. I just had to ruin it all and shout in that dinner. Is that how you’ll die? Caught by the police and shoot down? I don’t want to see that too. I don’t want to see you disappear.

So, if I die, could you bring my dead body underneath that poor lonely tree? Please.

I think I talked too much, wrote too much, anyway…

—Kimberly’

She won’t ask me ‘How many days left?’ again. But as I’m writing all this down right now, I have two days left. I spent all the day yesterday in my dull room, on this typewriter. And I’m around the end of this story, and I’m sure you wonder what happens next. Well, I’m gonna kill myself. Right under that olive tree, right next to her. Why? I seriously don’t know. Don’t mistake it, it ain’t like Romeo and Juliet, or Crime and Punishment. This is not a confession, no, there’s nothing for me to atone from. I could probably cope with my sentence, or run away, but it’s all really empty. As empty as this room. You have to understand, that’s the point. You have to understand us. Her.

Everything is just as empty now that she’s gone, might as well dumbly follow the prediction. That funny machine… That gypsy was absolutely right; I’d die in seven days. It even predicted that I’d die because I knew I’d die, that I’d follow his ‘prediction’, that the ‘effect’ would merely be the ‘cause’. Truly unsettling. Would I’ve done all this if I didn’t read that prediction? I hardly think I would’ve. I’ll grab my shotgun and blow up my face anyway.

Before the invariant scenery of the sea framed by my window, in the corner of this futile afternoon, hunched on this typewriter—I’m writing our story, her story, between beautiful lies.

And it has come to an end.