I saw Red. I tried to put on a front, but he saw through it. He was painting me, he had to look carefully. I wonder if he would have noticed if he weren’t painting. He stopped and looked sad. He put his brush down. Came over. Touched me on the cheek. Looked into me. I felt like I was going to throw up — got up, ran to the door. I left my jacket behind. Travelled home on automatic. Called Maggie, told her to tell work I’d been taken ill. I am ill. You don’t know how ill.

I can hardly write tonight. Short sentences feel easier. It’s such an effort, moving the pen against the paper. It rubs, it pains me. A tense, uncomfortable feeling. I get it in my hands sometimes when I’m typing, need to shake them, release them. I can’t get enough breath inside me, keep finding myself sucking it in, slow sigh after slow sigh. Like Mother near the end. I want to curl up so tight that I disappear into myself. This isn’t nice to read, is it? Reminding you of anyone? How honest are you with yourself? You think you have a nice life? Comfortable, suburban… nice husband, nice wife, nice children, comfortable job… it doesn’t mean shit. None of it. How happy are you? Really? That dead bit inside, you manage to forget it for most of the time, don’t you? It’s real. It’s real and it’s going to eat you. Can’t write any more. Can’t. Write. Any. More.

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