“I felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach,” she explains to Sunil. “I didn’t know how to react. I was in the middle of something I didn’t understand and it stole my voice. This whole situation is inconceivable to me. How could I prepare for something I didn’t think was even possible? Please understand, Bear.” Her chest tightens. “I need you to understand.” She wishes he was beside her, his arm wrapped around her shoulder, telling her of course he understands, he probably would have reacted the same way, so stop worrying, nothing has ever come between them, and this won’t either. She longs for him to tell her that everything is going to be okay. He doesn’t forgive her because there is nothing to forgive. But, as ever, the only sound that pours into her ears, is silence.

The skin of her face feels feverish. She holds the cool glass against her searing forehead, trying to slow her speeding thoughts, which race like frenetic molecules pinging off her inner skull. But there is no cooling their sickly motion. She finishes her drink and sets the glass aside. Even the power of whisky can’t bolster her against Anchor’s drag.

Despite all your promises, it tells her, you’re still failing him. You had a chance to do something, to set things right, but instead you did nothing, as usual.

As Anchor pulls, it gets harder to breathe, as if her guilt is water, and she is at risk of drowning in the open air.

The heaviness comes next, its shadow passing through her like a ghost, from her crown of her head, to the soles of her cemented feet.

Aren’t you tired of these broken promises, says Gloom. These thin apologies?

You know he must be tired of them.

…You’re an excuse for a sister.

A waste….

Anchor, Blaze, and Black Gloom all at once—subcutaneous, unsparing, swelling—moving in quick ripples, volatile fluids sliding together in an oily slick, a force that is building toward a burst, the want for release rising to need.

Moving mechanically, Kavita fetches a tea towel from the kitchen, retraces her way to the sliding door, and steps onto the wet patio stones, barefoot. After wrapping the tumbler in the towel, she places the bundle on the ground, hovers her foot above it for a second, then smashes it with her heel.

As she squats low, she unwraps the towel, and searches among the shards, choosing a piece that resembles a spearhead. Holding her breath, she presses the sharpest edge deeply into her palm, resurrecting her cigarette scar. Pain roars up into her throat where she gags on it. The rims of her eyes quiver with little vibrations that blur the edges of her vision.

She does not wince.

She knows she does not deserve to wince.

She does not scream.

She knows she does not deserve to scream.