What Sleeps – Extrait 16
smudged in the pale blue ink on the letter. His handwriting. Her name. Kalina. Kalina. Kalina. Her fingers are white, stiff, pressing against her knees, the ache a slow, sharp twist. She tells herself to breathe. But the air is thick. Too thick. Pressing against her throat. The old woman is there. Her face, pale, twisted, her fingers reaching, clawing, her voice a faint, dying whisper. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” But who? Who is he? Who is she? Her phone buzzes, a faint, sharp hum against the table. She grabs it, her fingers numb, her breath catching. Ina. Her thumb hovers over the screen. Answers. The voice is warm, sharp, a thin, desperate thread. “Kalina? Are you there? Finally. I’ve been trying to—” “I’m here.” “You sound awful. Are you sick? What happened?” “Nothing. I’m fine.” A lie. Another lie. “You don’t sound fine. You sound—” “I said I’m fine.” The words are sharp, too sharp, cracking. “I just… I need to…” “To what?” “I don’t know.” Her voice is too thin, too fast. The ache is twisting, pressing, sharp. “I don’t know what to do.” “Kalina, please. Talk to me.” “About what?” “About whatever’s eating you alive. About why you’ve been acting like a ghost. About why you don’t sleep, don’t talk, don’t—” “I saw her.” The words slip out, sharp, raw. “I saw her. She’s dead.” “Who?” Ina’s voice, sharp, startled. “Kalina, what are you talking about?” “The old woman. In the hallway. She’s dead. She was… I saw her. I saw her die.” “Oh my God… Did you call someone? Did you—” “No. I ran. I just… I left.” Her breath catches, her fingers tight against the phone. “I didn’t know what to do.” “Kalina… You have to tell someone.” “No.” Her voice is too loud, sharp, cracking. “I can’t. I can’t… I don’t know… I don’t know who she is. I don’t know who she was talking about. I don’t…” “Who she was talking about?” “She said to tell him… that she’s sorry.” The ache is a sharp, twisting knot. “But I don’t know who. I don’t know anything.” “Kalina…” Ina’s voice is soft now, too soft. “You’re not making sense.” “I know.” Her voice is a faint, thin whisper. “I know.” “You need to calm down. You need to—” “Calm down? She’s dead, Ina. She’s dead. I saw her die. I left her there. I left her. And she told me to tell him. But I don’t know who. I don’t…” “Kalina, please. Please just breathe.” But she can’t. The ache is too sharp, the cold pressing, twisting. Her fingers are white, stiff, her breath too thin, too fast. “Tell him… I’m sorry…” Who is he? Who is she? Why does it matter? Why won’t it leave? “I have to go.” Her voice is too thin, too fast. “I have to…” “Wait. Wait, please. Kalina—” But she hangs up. The phone slips from her fingers, the pale glow pressing against the darkness, a thin, blue light. The ache is sharp, twisting, pressing, her chest too tight, her breath tearing against her throat. Her thoughts twist, melt, tangle, the old woman’s face pressing against the darkness, the letter crumpled, smudged, her name twisting, smearing. Kalina. Kalina. Kalina. She grabs the letter, her fingers tight, her breath sharp, her eyes tracing the words, the ink faint, trembling. Andrei. His name. His handwriting. Her name. Over and over. But he’s gone. Gone. Not dead. Just gone. A door that closed without a sound. A shadow that never left. Or did he leave? Or did she leave first? It doesn’t matter. He’s not here. But the letter is. Her name. His handwriting. And the old woman. Tell him… I’m sorry… She can’t breathe. The air is thick, sharp, pressing. Her fingers are white, tight, her eyes tracing the twisted ink, the letters faint, bleeding. Who was she? Who is he? What does it mean? She has to know. She stands, the room spinning, the darkness pressing, her fingers numb, the ache a slow, sharp twist. She grabs her coat, her keys, the door slamming behind her, the cold air pressing against her face. The rain is
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đź”– Labels : What Sleeps, What Sleeps – Extrait 16
