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Read book online ยซComing Undone by Terri White (bill gates books recommendations .TXT) ๐Ÿ“•ยป.   Author   -   Terri White



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the kitchen and help myself to a drink. I drink it fast; thereโ€™s another. I do what feels like the most unnatural act in the world and walk into an almost closed circle of people already talking. They warily make a few inches for me to stand in and continue talking while I nod, one hand holding another drink, the other gripping the forearm with all my might to keep me present, to stop me smashing up everything around me while I scream.

I see the alternative events unloading in my mind as I nod, smile, make uh-huh noises. Eventually, manners kick in. They ask me what I do. Thereโ€™s an eye roll at the word โ€˜journalismโ€™. Oh, those magazines, they say, eyebrows raised, foreheads tight.

A mutual friend and his wife arrive, and I take solace with them and the bottle of tequila which someone might have bought or someone might have just found. I remember a shot, two shots and then black.

I wake, fully dressed, on top of my sheets. I roll my tongue over inside my teeth, which are sticky. I can taste, feel, sick. I roll over on my back, grab my phone, see with relief that Iโ€™m not late for work, but then Iโ€™m hit with instant panic as I realise, know, that Dave isnโ€™t there. I look over at the sofa to be sure and itโ€™s empty, blanket folded up on top of the single pillow. Thereโ€™s a brick in my chest. I canโ€™t remember, but I know something bad happened. I did something bad.

The thing about blackouts is that, more often than not, the memory is gone forever. I spend years and years trying to retrieve them, to fish them out with a hook from the tightest crevices and recesses of my mind. The memory, the exact words and shapes and acts may not be there โ€“ what I did with my mouth, my hands, my feet, my legs โ€“ but the knowledge that Iโ€™d done something, something bad, is always with me. The bit of my brain that decided not to record the memory isnโ€™t going to let me off the hook that easily. I carry the stink of shame and embarrassment and panic around with me until I see the place or the person I picked it up.

I call Dave. He answers.

โ€˜Where are you?โ€™ I ask.

โ€˜Do you not remember?โ€™

โ€˜No.โ€™

He tells me, matter-of-factly, that I ruined his party. That I got drunk, shouted, I might have cried. That Iโ€™d fled and told him he couldnโ€™t stay at mine. Heโ€™d had to find somewhere else to sleep and is currently in Brooklyn.

Everything gets very still as he talks. I notice dust, the air carrying bits of my skin past me as I stare out of the window. I want to jump through it.

He meets me after work in an Indian restaurant in the Village. I barely taste my food as I apologise over and over, and though he says the right words with considerable grace, he canโ€™t meet my eyes. Iโ€™ve never felt more ashamed, hated myself more. The bodies continue to pile up.

CHAPTER 16

Itโ€™s October when warning comes of the impending Hurricane Sandy โ€“ the post-tropical cyclone which will go on to cause the deaths of seventy-one people in America. I have no idea what Iโ€™m about to experience or how to prepare for it. I think of soft British winds and scattered showers, and I go to the bodega on the corner and buy supplies: crisps, biscuits, two apples, cakes and two candles. I donโ€™t buy booze I never allow myself to drink at home โ€“ a decision I will come to regret. Weโ€™re sent home early from work just before itโ€™s declared unsafe to travel.

I make it home as the wind starts howling with a roar and the rain pounds down. I sit watching events unfold on television, idly flicking between all of the channels showing the same thing. Then: nothing. No noise, no light. The electricity goes out and my apartment is plunged into silent darkness. I start texting friends back in the UK, but a few minutes later, the bars on my cell phone disappear and service goes completely. I go to the toilet and flush, but no water rushes up and out. I try the sink: thereโ€™s just the squeaking of the taps against the dry spout.

I realise I have no phone reception, no access to email or the internet and no TV. I have no choice but to wait it out, alone, in darkness, as the storm rages on and on outside. For how long, I have no clue. I burn through my two candles in hours, ration out the meagre food. I lie on the bed, in total darkness, the trees outside hurtling towards my windows, never following through on their threat. I make no effort to roll out of their way, just in case the worst happens. The streets outside are empty, pitch-black. The wind picks up papers, trash and takes them careering through the air. I watch them as they dance. I have no clue, at any point, what time it is. With little to do but sleep, I wake not knowing if itโ€™s a new day or still the same one, whatโ€™s dawn and whatโ€™s sunset.

I hear what I think are voices, chanting, chanting, chanting. Or are they thoughts? I hear them in my dreams and when Iโ€™m awake, when the wind blows and the windows rattle and when itโ€™s perfectly still. I see shadows curl up and crawl the walls, their body blending with mine on the ceiling.

On what I think is the fourth day, the wind has stopped and I decide to venture outside, hoping itโ€™s safe. I feel my way down the stairs of my building in complete darkness, the electricity still off. As I open the door to my building and step outside, Iโ€™m relieved to see handfuls of people wandering outside, though they looked

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