Burning Time

11

Troland felt bad. He didn’t think he had ever felt so bad. He couldn’t even go to work because of what she did to him. She had been the prettiest, nicest girl in the whole world, the only girl he ever really liked, and he had saved her. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he saved her. He, Troland Grebs, saved her. And now she made a fool of him like it didn’t matter to her at all that he held her in his heart all these years. He hated her.

She was the only girl who was so perfect he had to make special rules just for her. He remembered every one: He could look at her, but not when she was on the beach. He could write letters to her, but not send them. He could draw pictures of her, but not let anybody see them. The most important thing was he couldn’t touch her no matter what. And he never did. He had been good all these years, and she had to humiliate him, curse him, break every rule like the worst whore that ever was.

He lay on the sofa in his apartment two, three days; drinking, staggering to the bathroom, vomiting, passing out—drinking some more. He couldn’t go to work. When he finally got up and cleaned the apartment, he didn’t know why it smelled, why there was vomit on the floor. He just knew he was going to take back all the things he had ever done for Emma Chapman, one at a time.