Читать книгу Guilt: The Sunday Times best selling psychological thriller that you need to read in 2018 - Amanda Robson, Amanda Robson - Страница 29

Every day feels the same. Solid. Blurred and grey. They are giving her so many tablets, antidepressants, anxiolytics, sleeping tablets. First thing in the morning. Last thing at night. In happier times, she would have made a joke about it, said she rattled with all the pills she takes. But she is so diminished, jokes are a distant memory.

It is a relief at night to fall into the numbness of a drug-induced sleep. Sleep that isn’t sleep. Sleep that doesn’t refresh her. When she wakes in the morning she feels as if she is pulling herself out of a coma. Her head pounds and feels heavy, so heavy. As if made of solid metal, not bone and tissue and flesh. Her neck aches. It hurts to hold her head up and light pierces, like a painful laser, into her eyes. When she moves, her limbs feel as if they are pushing through solid brick.

The prison officers don’t trust her. She doesn’t always trust herself when she is left alone. The clothes she is given are still made of paper in case she uses them to hang herself. But they don’t really need to worry – she doesn’t have the energy to commit suicide; it would take too much momentum.

Sometimes her mind clears for a while and she steps back in time.

Walking hand in hand with her sister down Fisherman’s Path in Tidebury. The silence of the sandy walkway pressing towards her. No footfall here. Her sister’s palm hot against hers. The sweet smell of the pine trees. The wind from the sea whispering across her cheek. For a few seconds, she forgets. For a few seconds, she feels her sister with her as if she’s still alive. But then she remembers and heaviness engulfs her.