Читать книгу Blue Sunday - Irma Venter - Страница 7

Thursday, 8 February, 12:02

I open the second-last tin of beans. Now there’s just one tin of baked beans and two tins of tuna left. The water bottle is at one litre and the orange juice is under the halfway mark.

Enough food and drink for three days – maybe more, if I’m careful.

How long can one go without water again? Three days?

I sit down on the mattress on the floor. The sheet was clean when I got here, but the white is now an ugly cream colour. It smells different too. From clean to sweat to stink – the smell of the damp walls, the sandy plaster and the wet red bricks beneath it.

When’s he coming back? He has to come back, because I can’t go anywhere. The door is locked with a chain and a big padlock.

Doesn’t help to think about that again.

Around and around with the tin opener. It’s one of the old types, with the sharp point you hammer into the tin and then jiggle up and down to cut the metal. By now I know how to use it.

“Slowly, Maria! Don’t hurt yourself. We need to look after you.”

I hate being called Maria. I don’t know why he does it. It sounds like something from the Bible. And I hate this awful place. And I’m not in the mood for beans.

I want to cry, but I fight the tears. Crying doesn’t change anything.

I bend the loose metal flap open carefully and stick a teaspoon into the red tomato sauce. I need to eat. You never know what’ll happen tomorrow. That’s what Mom always said, before she …

I wipe my cheek, swallow the heartache pushing up into my throat. About Mom. About Dad. About dying. About everything. Then I give in, and cry. There’s no one here to see me anyway.