Free World of Glass by Jocelyne Dubois Page A

wallet is still in it. Credit, bank and Medicare cards still there. I lock the front door. The radio dial is on “Espace Musique.” I begin to believe that the DJ is playing songs especially chosen for me to hear. I tell myself, “This is crazy, Chloé.” I walk into Mark’s office, sit in front of his computer and Google “Risperdal withdrawal symptoms,” and read, “If Risperdal is discontinued abruptly, many people will experience paranoid symptoms. This is one of the side effects of withdrawal. Consult your doctor if you wish to terminate this drug. The dose should be reduced gradually so as to prevent this side effect.” I pace up and down the hallway. The music bothers my ears and mind and I switch the OFF button on the sound system. Mark is in the kitchen washing dishes while listening to a podcast with earphones on. I do not tell him what I am thinking. I open the fridge door to pour myself a tall glass of passion fruit juice. I lift up the glass to my dry lips and wonder whether the drink was poisoned. If I swallow this liquid I worry that I will choke and die. I put the glass down on the counter without ever taking a sip and tell myself that I will pour the carton of juice down the sink when Mark leaves the kitchen. Is there someone out to get me? I fear. I tell myself these are just symptoms, but then I forget. I lie down on the sofa in the living room, close my eyes. Mark walks by and says, “Having a nap?” He grabs his leather bag, kisses me on my cheek and whispers, “I’m going out to a café to correct some papers. I’ll be back in about an hour or so. Hope you feel better soon.” I hear the door shut then I jump up, rush into the kitchen to pour the juice down the sink and watch the toxic liquid disappear into the drain. I go to the bathroom and flush the toilet even though I haven’t peed. I return tothe sofa and stare at a novel by Iris Murdoch. The Sacred and Profane Love Machine is opened on page ten. I pick it up and read the line, “Suppose that face were to come and look at me through the window.” I put the book back down on the coffee table. Is there someone spying on me, I wonder. My body trembles while I rush to the front window to see if there is someone on our balcony. I see no one except for an old man walking his dog on the sidewalk across the street. I stretch my body onto the sofa once again, wrap a blanket around my body, and rest my head on a large yellow cushion. I do not move. I hear the door unlock. I jump up. I tell Mark I need something to quench my dry mouth. My tongue feels pasty and sticky, my throat burns. It hurts to swallow. Mark hands me a bottle of water. It is safe to drink this since it is sealed. I swish the water around my tongue and inner cheeks then swallow. “That’s better, thanks,” I tell him as he is walking through the hallway to sit in front of his computer. I think about the laundry overflowing in the basket. I get up and slip Jacques Brel into the CD player. I cry over a dead leaf on one of our plants. The palm plant needs watering. I look out the window. The sun has set. I cry at not having the life I thought I could have had, filled with energy and curiosity. My brain hurts. I feel a pinch beneath my skull. Mark walks into the living room. I can see he is worried. Doesn’t know who to call. “Talk to me,” he pleads. I am silent. It takes too much effort to explain. I want to tell him that I need help or I will die, but this would cause him anguish, stress, more concern. I worry that if I tell him how I feel, he will abandon me.
    Mark makes himself a stir-fry and reads his poetry dictionary. I look at him through the door to the kitchen and see sadness but he is calm. “It will pass,” he says. I get up. I pace and think about drowning myself in the bathtub.I would first swallow a bunch of sleeping pills then I would sink my head under water, but first, I