Page 114 of These Tears

Neglected.

I snatch one as I sneak out of the room and towards the toilet – hoping it’s inside the house and not one of those outdoor boxes where I might freeze my arse to the toilet seat. I can’t even imagine Elias trying to prise me off it.

That sets off a whole new wave of panic, because I realise he hasn’t yet made good on the joint-lavatory-sessions threat from the airport.

Or at least not yet.

I need to stop thinking about stupid shit.

Purpose. Time. Movement.

Without daring to touch the lights, I surrender to the silvery sheen of moonlight slipping between retreating clouds, casting strips of ghost-light through the windows across the sitting room floorboards – as if the sky itself pities me, wants me to see the way out even if I can’t reach it.

On my way, I loosen the hinges on the back of the picture frame, and I clutch it to my chest as I make my way down the corridor that offers no reprieve. The cold, rough grain of the log walls becomes my only tether to direction. I trail my fingers along them, each knot and groove a countdown.

And then—

Crack!

The board beneath my foot gives with a long, drawn-out wail.

My heart lurches, my stomach rolls. The blood leaves my head as if I’ve been yanked out of a cold sea. I hold in place, not even breathing. The skin along my spine prickles as my ears strain. I wait. Every cell inside me screams for silence to speak back to me.

No footsteps.

No fabric rustling.

No voice slicing the night with my name.

Frantic, I shove the phone between the backboard and the white paper lining, tucking it with quick fingers into the narrow space, then bury the frame beneath two others on the cluttered chest of drawers where it can wait until I return.

Exhaling quietly, I spin in search of the toilet.

The first door is to the left of the corridor. Moonlight from the adjacent window catches the extra boards crossing its face; thick timber bracing thick timber.

I try the handle—

Locked.

My body goes rigid.

Why is this door locked?

I glance sideways towards the back exit with the glass frosted over.

That one is the exit. People don’t lock lavatories. So where does this one lead?

My gaze latches back onto the rough, handmade surface of the locked entrance as I stare at nothing at all in the dark.

Three locks line the edge vertically.

And now I want to know what’s behind this door.

It’s a misfortune that my bladder is about to commit a socially unacceptable crime, which is the only thing that drags me away from that spot.

I find the toilet across from the back exit.

In and out. I’m nearly smiling when I emerge despite the toilet seat being cold enough to give me heart palpitations.