Page 54 of Downfall

“I can come in if you want.” She begins and I shake my head.

“No.” I murmur. She’s not left my side in two days. It’s suffocating. Claustrophobic. I know she’s only doing it out of concern but I need space. I need to be alone.

I give her my best reassuring smile and then get out.

Inside the house feels empty. Like it’s already the monument to an old life. I walk from room to room as if seeing them in afresh. This was my home. Mine and Paris’s and yet it never felt like that. Even from day one, it felt his space, his haven, and just a place I existed.

I wasn’t allowed to change anything, wasn’t allowed to redecorate, or hang anything up on the walls. All of this minimalist interior was of his design. The only thing that was mine were the clothes hanging in my closet and the toothbrush by the sink.

I shake my head. I guess all that changes now. I can literally do what I want. Hell, I can sell this house, sell it all and no one can stop me.

I let out a laugh and it echoes of the stark walls.

I knew I’d outlive our marriage. I just didn’t expect Paris not to.

* * *

Days pass.I don’t leave the house. I don’t exactly hide here but I’m so exhausted and for once it’s nice to stay in bed without fear of the consequences.

My mind keeps going back, not to him, not to my husband, but before that; to that horrific year before. For the first time I’m able to think about it, to allow myself to. To acknowledge everything I endured, acknowledge everything I suffered.

In truth, to actually grieve.

I feel drained in a way I’ve never felt, like opening this door has finally let the floodgates out to all the emotions I’ve buried, all the trauma I suppressed.

I lay in the darkness, barely eating or drinking each day beyond the forced mouthfuls the maids make me take in.

But each night I binge. Each night my hunger takes over and I lurk in the kitchen, eating everything Paris would never let me eat before slinking back into the darkness of my bedroom once more.

Only today I have a meeting with our lawyers. Paris’s technically.

I’ve got myself showered, dressed, put makeup on and for all intents and purpose I look presentable, polished. I look how the world expects me to look.

I walk into his reception and a few people glance wide eyed at me. We’ve been front page news since the accident. There’s been so much speculation. So much gossip. Darius pulled strings to speed up the inquest but it’s not for another week.

My face is still livid with bruising but I can at least open my eye properly. I’ve ditched the sling too but my arm feels funny, like my body is disjointed, like it’s not quite sure if it’s mending itself or not.

“Mrs Blumenfeld.”

I look up. “It’s Capulet.” I say quietly. I never changed my name. My father wouldn’t allow it. He wanted everyone to remember who I was, that it was a Capulet married to Paris, a Capulet in his bed.

“I apologise Ms Capulet.”

I give a small smile. It shouldn’t make any difference but in this moment it does. I don’t want to be associated to Paris any more than I already am. I gave that man five years of my life. Five torturous, horrific years. He doesn’t deserve anything more.

I follow him through and as he shuts the door I can practically see everyone in the foyer craning their necks to get a good look at me.

“Would you like a drink?” He asks.

“No, thank you.” I reply.

He gestures to the leather chair across from his desk and then sits behind it, pulling what is undoubtedly ‘our’ paperwork. He must be in his fifties. He’s portly, with grey whispery hair and an expensive suit but he gives the air of someone you can trust, I guess he has to in his profession.

“If you’re happy then, we can get straight to it.”

I nod. That works for me.

“Unfortunately your husband didn’t have any will in place...” He begins, flicking through the papers.

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