Kathy wondered if she was going mad. It was a common enough condition for people like her, she knew that. When simple, basic facts like what year it was or what country you were standing on could change purely on your own whim, it wasn’t really conducive to a stable sense of reality.
No, she reassured herself. I’m not mad. I’m in shock, traumatised, psychologically scarred, neurotic and constantly on the verge of a panic attack but I am most definitely not mad.
Well. Thank goodness for that.
To be perfectly honest, in the aftermath of the bombing, she had been plagued with a horrible feeling that she was coping too well. It was almost as if there was a giant cartoon anvil of utter grief hanging overhead, to which she was totally oblivious. Only when she chanced to look up, it would come crashing down on her, crushing her with the memory of everyone she had lost.
Milo was gone. There was no way that had struck home yet. When she finally acccepted that, when she finally realised he had gone…
Or maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe this was all there was. Maybe this was all the grief that she could actually muster, and she just felt guilty because it seemed such a pitiful offering for such a terrible loss.
Maybe she was just some kind of souless machine.
Maybe she was a sociopath and didn’t know it.
Maybe she was going mad.
Maybe she was exhausted, stressed and needed some sleep.
Maybe that was it.
“Sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Eamonn asked.
They were standing outside the door to Mariana’s home.
Kathy shook her head wearily.
“Less is more.” she said “I’ll go.”
“Scream if you need me.”
“Okay. Don’t let anyone see you.”
“But I’m so pretty. How can I deny them?”