Page 71 of Our Last Resort

Aculmination.That’s what he called it.

The result of years of devotion.

The sheets were scratchy. Their touch invoked the mothers in the laundry room, bent over vats of soapy water, nails scratching against the washboards, their cheeks glowing red in the steam.

His hands were—well. I don’t remember his hands. I remember the whoosh of his skin against fabric. I remember a force pulling me forward, slowly but decisively.

I remember that I understood nothing but somehow knew everything.

Émile was a shape above me, a weight pinning me to the mattress. He was a chaos of movement, grunts, and fingers.

His breath was slow at first, and then something hurt, and everything quickened.

When I tried to get away, the wordwrigglepopped into my brain. I spelled it out for myself, w-r-i-g-g-l-e, like maybe it could save me. Like maybe if I focused on this funny word and its spelling, I might find a way back to myself.

Wriggle,I thought,like a worm.

I remember that I was cold when I leaped from the bed.

I don’t remember what Émile said, if he said anything. Maybe he tried to hold me back; maybe he knew he didn’t need to. He had thought of everything.

Edwina stepped into my path. She must have been standing in a corner of the room this whole time. I hadn’t noticed. I didn’t see her there until her body became a barrier between me and my only exit.

She led me back where I’d come from. That, I haven’t forgotten. When things started up again, she was there. Front-row seat.

The next time I tried to do it, the next time I tried towriggle,her hands did not hesitate. They wrapped themselves around my ankles.

What I do remember—what I will never forget—is that she kept me there until it was over.

And here’s what I know: That I shed a part of myself just then. That a version of me is trapped in that moment. That in some ways I’ve never gotten back up, never freed myself from Edwina’s grasp.

It ended. Technically, it ended.

There are flashes: The white shape of Émile’s back as he sat on one side of the bed. The door shutting behind me. I don’t think he met my gaze once. Outside, the ground was frozen; I’d forgotten my shoes on the second floor. I didn’t go back for them, made my way back to my dorm in socks.

When I got back into my own bed, I couldn’t feel my feet.

I couldn’t feel anything.

The most insulting part: Life went on.

It went on right outside my window. Owls hooted. Bushes rustled with the furtive steps of deer and raccoons.

The sun rose.

I reported for duty as usual. In the daylight, Émile was back to his usual self. He greeted me, pulled out my chair, handed me the day’s work.

I proofread his fucking pamphlets. I organized his fucking books.

The blur of his body next to me, his movements as familiar as an old song.

But that day, my own gestures were imprecise, clumsy. Objects slipped from my hands. My entire body ached. My shoulders. My legs. There were a hundred little pains, a thousand alarm bells all going off at the same time within me.

At dinner, I found Simon.

It felt weird, going to Simon instead of Gabriel. But I needed to know.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” I said.

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