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He managed to stand and sit down on the bed. Clotilde came back into the room. “I put the coffee on. I’ll clean up in a minute. Quite the party, huh?”
Jeremy said nothing, vacillating between sadness and terror.
“Okay, fine. I see you haven’t fully recovered. Do you want a massage?” She came and sat behind him on the bed. She nudged him and got him to lie down on his stomach. “Come on, relax. There you go, like that. You’re so stiff.”
Jeremy felt himself go limp. He had neither the will nor the strength to resist. He felt like he was a character in a grotesque puppet story. She sat astride his buttocks and ran her hands over his back.
“The drunkest last night was Bruno,” she said. “He said some crazy things. And honestly, I didn’t think it was funny. Retarded macho jokes. That guy has libido problems if you ask me. And he thought he was going to coax Sylvie into his bed with his crappy humor and his alcoholic breath? She turned him down quick. And she did everything she could to seduce the adorable Charles. But ever since his sudden enlightenment, that one, he hasn’t been the least bit interested in women. You know, you’d think a guy who’s attracted to men after more than twenty years of rather active heterosexuality—because, you know, he was a hot little bunny before—you’d think he’d at least become bisexual. But no! He’s only interested in men right now…Are you feeling any better? Hey, you could at least say something.”
Jeremy wasn’t listening to Clotilde anymore. Dazed, he found it impossible to get up. He wanted her to stop talking and disappear.
She stretched out on his back. “Would you prefer something more intimate? That might help you rediscover your emotional potential. No reason to dwell on yesterday’s little fiasco.” Clotilde kissed Jeremy’s neck and back.
Her kisses revolted him. Jeremy turned abruptly, and Clotilde fell to one side. “Get up and go away!” he roared, drawing himself up.
She looked at him in astonishment. “Are you joking? Are you feeling sick or something?” she asked, her voice torn between disbelief and anger.
“Get out!”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy? Is this because I said something about your difficulty yesterday? I was only joking…you were drunk, that’s it. I mean, come on, I know you well enough to know—”
“Leave!”
Frightened, Clotilde backed away. Then, driven by rage and humiliation, she stood up and faced him. “Who do you think you are?” she shouted angrily. “You think you scare me? You think you can play games with me? I’m not one of those little sluts you pick up at the bar and pay so they’ll leave as soon as you snap your fingers.”
Jeremy said nothing. He didn’t care about what she was saying anymore. Clotilde took his silence for weakness.
“You make me sick, asshole,” she spat with loathing. “I’m leaving. Your wife is right. You’re crazy. That’s right, you’re nothing but an impotent little freak. And don’t you dare call me with more excuses. This time I’m not coming back.” Clotilde slammed the door on her way out.
Jeremy fell back onto the bed. I cheated on Victoria. With Pierre’s wife. I lost everything. Everything. I didn’t change. My plan failed. I didn’t get better. I’m sick. I’m crazy. Crazy. He screamed these last words, grabbing a glass from the table and throwing it violently against the wall. “I’m crazy! I’m crazy!” He sobbed, collapsing onto the bed.
Then he heard the sound of liquid overflowing and smelled the reek of burning coffee. He felt the same hunger as on his last awakenings. But it felt insignificant compared to his tragedy.
Soon, a twisted idea made him smile bitterly: I’m unhappy. But then again, I’m only unhappy f
or a few hours now and then, when I’m aware of how sick I am. The rest of the time, I’m a happy man. A jerk, a bad husband, an unfit father, but a man who lives as he pleases. Why not be satisfied with that? All I have to do is wait for this day to be over so I can go back to my life of debauchery.
But he could never accept it. He had to learn the truth. Not knowing was torture. Already a few ideas were surfacing in his mind.
Jeremy walked over to the closet and continued his investigation. In a box he discovered some papers. On one folder he read the word divorce, and his heart sank. He opened it and found a letter from a lawyer dated January 4, 2012.
If I’m waking up on the eighth of May again, then my last period of amnesia dates back to at least two years ago.
He scanned the court papers, looking for more information.
Mr. Jeremy Delègue left his home over six months ago. He has given no notice to his children or spouse since then…
While Mr. Delègue has indeed delivered a sum of ten thousand euros to his wife, it was only after the appeal process began for these exact purposes…
Mr. Delègue completed a long course of treatment at the Sainte-Anne Psychiatric Hospital in Paris. The detention occurred at his request (see items #3 and #4) due to serious concerns. The report of the doctor who monitored and cared for him during these six months is clear. He states that Mr. Delègue is suffering from a rare mental illness that manifests as a split personality…
He also notes that Mr. Delègue is gifted with an exceptional intelligence, which he uses to manipulate the people around him…
Mr. Delègue was released on October 2, 2010, after making significant progress and with the understanding that he would continue his treatment…
His spouse, who supported him during his treatment, welcomed him warmly…Two weeks later, Mr. Delègue stopped taking his medication. He quickly reestablished his old habits: nightly disappearances, heavy alcohol consumption, verbal abuse…
The remaining letters detailed the divorce proceedings initiated at Victoria’s request. Jeremy was crushed. His ordeal had taken a tragic turn. Their life together was over. Victoria didn’t want anything to do with him. The only positive element in what he read was that she had believed his story, tried to fight—to fight with him—against the illness. But she had to give up, and now he was the one she fought against.
