Page 157 of Misery
"Isn't it?" She opens her car door.
The interior is chaos—clothes, boxes, her whole life shoved into a space too small to hold it. "I probably won't come back. Maybe for holidays. Maybe. But probably not. This life, this place—it's poison for me now. Every street has a memory of before I fucked up. Every person knows what I did."
"Nobodyblames you?—"
"Everybody blames me. And they should."
"I don't blame you."
She stops, looks at me. "You should. I'm the reason you were targeted. The reason you were almost raped. The reason Oskar had to kill his friend."
"That's not?—"
"It is. Andrew asked specifically about you. About my sister. Where you worked, where you lived. And I told him. Proudly. Bragged about my talented sister." She's crying again. "I basically painted a target on your back."
"I love you," I tell her, because what else is there to say?
"I love you too. Tell Mom and Dad... tell them I'm sorry. Not about leaving. About everything else."
She gets in the car. I grab the door before she can close it.
"Helle, wait. You don't have money. You don't have a job lined up. You can't just?—"
"I have enough. Saved from my campus job. And Katie says there are lots of restaurants hiring. I'll waitress or something until I can get on my feet."
"Let me give you?—"
"No. I can't take anything else from this family. I've taken enough. Cost you enough, don’t you think?"
She closes the door and starts the engine.
It coughs, protests, but catches.
I watch her drive away, that dying Honda engine fading into the distance.
Watch until the dust settles.
Until the sound is gone.
Until it's just me standing in the driveway of a cottage that suddenly feels like it's on the edge of the world.
"She'll be okay," Oskar says, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
"Will she? She's alone, running to Texas with nothing but guilt and a car that barely runs."
"She's strong. Like you."
"I'm not strong. I stayed. I let them protect me. She's the one brave enough to leave."
"Different kinds of strength."
We go inside. The cottage feels smaller somehow, like Helle's absence has already changed the space.
The painting I was working on looks wrong now—all that bright joy feels like mockery.
I pick up a palette knife, consider scraping it all off, starting over with something that matches this new grief.
"You knew," I say suddenly, setting down the knife. "About Andrew. Vanir told you."
