‘I don’t want to die,’ I whisper, over and over. I really don’t want to die, not here, like an animal, no, not at all, and the truth of that makes me want to both cry and laugh at the same time, because nothing could be a stronger sign of how far I’ve really come. How incredibly far I’ve succeeded in removing myself from the rock-bottom hell of my life as it once was, how I’ve turned trauma into triumph, building a valued life for myself with my husband who adores me. I think of my husband and my home every inch of the way.

The white porcelain Jonathan Adler vase Eirik bought for my birthday, filled with a riot of tulips. Five inches forward. The antique hand-painted silk lamps we bought in a tiny shop on a back street of Montmartre many years ago, casting our living room in a cozy, homely glow. Another five inches, the sickly taste of blood at the back of my throat. Our deep bathtub, big enough for two, the feel of the mosaic wall tiles beneath my fingertips as I soak, eyes closed, a glass of red on the shelf to my right. Ten inches forward, a wave of pain. The way it feels to be pleasantly trapped beneath my husband in bed, his skin on my skin, his hands in my hair, his voice murmuring into my ear. Five inches more.

I become aware of a strange sound, a low, animal-like grunting echoing up and down the narrow shaft of the path, slicing through the trees. It rises into a wail, then a high-pitched keening, and I realize that it is coming from me – the pain tearing through me manifested in sound. I don’t want to die, but in this moment I am convinced that I will. I have no strength left in my hands, my fingertips are raw and feelingless, my head is pounding and strangely light, like everything that normally fills the conscious mind has seeped out into the white night. What I want now is to lie down. To give my body to the earth. To be cocooned in dark silence, to feel some peace.

‘I don’t want to die I don’t want to die I don’t want to die,’ I try to keep whispering out loud but the words die on my lips. Come on, Kristina. Come on. I can feel a voice speaking to me inside; it’s so strong, it’s physical, like the rush of blood through my veins. In my mind, I see a girl. A young girl. She’s in the woods, like the broken woman on the snowy hillside in Telemark. She’s going to die, and she knows it. But she doesn’t. She is going to get out of there and build a beautiful life. She will leave those woods. But still, the woods won’t ever really leave her.