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Saturday, 17 November- 2.07 a.m.
I cannot sleep. Ben is upstairs, back in bed, and I am writing this in the kitchen.
He thinks I am drinking a cup of cocoa that he has just made for me. He thinks I will come back to bed soon. I will, but first I must write again.
The house is quiet and dark now, but earlier everything seemed alive. Amplified.
I had hidden my journal in the wardrobe and crept back into bed after writing about what I had seen as we made love, but still felt restless.
I could hear the ticking of the clock downstairs, its chimes as it marked the hours, Ben’s gentle snores.
I could feel the fabric of the duvet cover on my chest, see nothing but the glow of the alarm clock by my side. I turned on my back and closed my eyes.
All I could see was myself, with hands clamped tight around my throat so that I could not breathe. All I could hear was my own voice, echoing. I am going to die.
I thought of my journal. Would it help to write more? To read it again? Could I really take it from its hiding place without waking Ben?
He lay, barely visible in the shadows. You are lying to me, I thought. Because he is. Lying about my novel, about Adam.
And now I feel certain he is lying about how I came to be here, trapped, like this.
I wanted to shake him awake. I wanted to scream, Why? Why are you telling me I was knocked over by a car on an icy road?
I wonder what he is protecting me from. How bad the truth might be. And what else is there, that I do not know?
My thoughts turned from my journal to the metal box, the one in which Ben keeps the photos of Adam.
Maybe there will be more answers in there, I thought. Maybe I will find the truth.
I decided to get out of bed. I folded the duvet back so that I didn’t wake my husband.
I grabbed my journal from its hiding place and crept, barefoot, on to the landing.
The house felt different now, sheened in the bluish moonlight. Frozen, and still.
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