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A little unsteadily, she got up, went to the liquor cabinet, picked out the bottle of Rémy Martin, walked back to the settee, plopped herself down and poured another drink. And her mind kept going. What she had was purely compensation for her effort, not a gift or a luxury she should be grateful for. Food and drink were a necessity to her, not a pleasure; she could do with less of both. Why was Marek so fixated on them? But she needed so very badly. And she depended on a man to give it to her. She could work twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week, she could obtain all things material, but not her husband's love, if he did not wish to give it. The more she had pleaded for closeness, the more remote Marek had become. "Get away, little worm," his attitude had seemed to say at times. She had felt on several occasions his revulsion toward her. Was he sadomasochistic, or just unable to tolerate her being loving toward him? When she felt hurt and resentful and was not very talkative with him, he seemed to tiptoe around her. Then she would feel that her sulking was foolish and would become her lovey-dovey self again and cuddle up to him. Soon, he was making small gestures and innuendos, clearly giving the message that she was in his way. Eve assessed her feelings. And a new stream of tears ejected from her already sore eyes, her gut twisted in pain. "Oh, God help me!" she cried out. Her mind was getting blurry, she noticed, and so was her vision, she was not used to hard liquor and she was drinking cognac like it was wine. But her blurry vision could be from the crying. She felt so horribly sad, so dismally useless and so abhorrent...
The house remained still and in darkness.
Suddenly, Eve stopped crying. She blew her nose for the umpteenth time. But this would be the last time; she had a solution to her troubles. Draining the last of the cognac and in what she considered a cool head, in perfect control of her faculties, she went to the bathroom and found the pack of razor blades. She took one out, removed its protective wrapping and sitting on the edge of the bathtub, cut both of her wrists.
She was not sure if she had yelled out or not. Perhaps she had just wanted to, when the sharp pain of the razor cut her flesh. She could not remember...she could not think clearly...the pain now, was dull and throbbing...she felt the warm liquid flowing from her wrists...and the blunt pain...and numbing of her senses, her head feeling lighter, pretty good actually...peaceful...floating in the dark, then light.
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