I saw then that they were dressed again. I had never felt so naked in my life, so utterly vulnerable. I shook my head. Then the lights went out.

I remember I vomited during the night, convulsively. It felt like I was setting something free, ridding myself of a monster. I remember nothing else, apart from the feeling that I wasn’t in control of my body. The thought went through my mind that I might die. That I didn’t have the strength or the wits to do anything about it. That I just had to let it happen—whatever “it” was going to be. And then, like something heavy and wet sliding into a black hole in the ground, I fell asleep again.

When I woke I didn’t know who I was. My mind was a clean slate, for just one beautiful moment. Until the memory came crashing down. I was lying in the bed in our room upstairs, naked under the covers. My guts and head were burning. The curtains were drawn. Faint sunlight glowed underneath and around their edges. You in the other bed, asleep. Your shoulder moved almost imperceptibly, your breathing inaudible. I pulled myself up. My body was heavy and unfamiliar; every movement felt unusual. I put on some clothes, threw the rest of my things into my bag. You didn’t stir as I walked out. I moved across the silent corridor, over the oriental carpets, downstairs to the room with the fireplace. It was cool. Empty bottles on tables, the faded smell of cigarettes. And in the middle of the room, like some bizarre offering, was a mound made up of our clothes. Outside on the veranda there was a burned spot where a fire had been. Birds—small and fat, with orange beaks—flew around excitedly, picking at something in the dewy grass. A pair of panties. White and lacy, discarded like someone’s fantasy.