Someone broke a window last night so it's a good thing, the only thing,
perhaps, that we can do. It's hard on my brother. But then I think: I
never asked him to come here.
I'm trying to walk around at night. My brother says that I should wait until we move. He's afraid someone is going to try to hurt me.
Since the trial, nothing is a surprise. Who would have thought that, at the age of forty-five, my entire world would be turned upside down by a mere fever?
I had a fever that swung between 102°~ 109° for three days. People have been turned into vegetables by less. Maybe there is something in us that hates the sight of weakness.
I don't think, for instance, that I would have ever been considered a suspect had I not had this sudden disability, lost my job, sat in front of my porch day after day, doing nothing but staring at the trees. For the first month, there was something mesmerizing in the leaves, the way they overlapped and let in sunlight, how they touched each other.
Sitting there like that and shaking slightly, this, it seems, was the real crime.
But I am here, free to walk around at night, free to leave this town if I want,
and still it is of no use.
I cannot remember anything of importance. It is not a matter of jogging my memory.
It's that I feel this vast absence, this indescribable texture of something having been raked
across my mind. Nothing is going to come back.
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