Conversation · Working Class Woman

No euphemisms, this is what you came here for.

I don't want to.

Wait, what?

There has been enough pain.

But we have to.

I don't want to do this.

Force yourself. Slap yourself.

(Turn to Kim.) "I don't want to do this."

"Do what?"

"Officer..." the lieutenant warns you.

Too late, you ruined it, just say it now.

"Your husband's dead."

"Excuse me, what?" She blinks. "What-did-you-say?"

She's in pain. She's in so much pain and so are you, your chest is burning.

You sense that the lieutenant is ready to say something -- don't let him. Fix this yourself, you did this.

Let him talk.

"We're very sorry to inform you, but your husband, Victor Méjean, was found dead this morning on the Martinaise boardwalk."

"Oh." She touches her neck, eyes pale like pearls in seawater.

"Oh," she says again, "But he was just..." She looks at the kitchen table, where two cigarette butts are still in the tray.

He was just here. Alive.

"I understand that this comes as a huge shock. I want you to know that me and my partner," he points at you, "are here for you if you have any questions. We're very sorry for your loss, ma'am."

"What happened to him? Tell me." Her neck and cheeks are covered with red blotches, her double chin is shaking.

"Trust me, ma'am, you don't want to know."

"Why, it's that bad?"

You stupid... why did you say that?!

"It looks like he slipped on the boardwalk -- fatally, I'm afraid. It was just a very unfortunate accident, although alcohol may have played a role."

"And you just... found him there? Lying in the cold?" She shakes her head.

"How long had he been there?"

"For a few days at least."

She doesn't reply. Her eyes well up with tears, as she struggles to keep it together.

You hear the clock ticking in the children's room.

"Is there anyone we could call for you? A friend, a family member, someone who could be here for you?"

"No, no..." She breathes in. "I just need to tell my girls..." The air gets sucked out of her lungs suddenly.

It burns like acid.

Unreal.

"God, should I call them? Should I tell them to come home?"

Look away.

"Alright, I'll call them..." She breathes in again, trying to steady herself.

She can't take much more. Her stomach is churning. Soon she will have to go to the bathroom and scream.

"Just tell me, what do I need to do next? Where is he? Can I see him?"

For god's sake. Lie.

"I don't know where they go..."

"No, I meant -- where is his body?!"

"He was taken to the city morgue. The local coroner will be contacting you shortly to arrange the funeral. Here's his number in case you want to contact him earlier." He hands her a leaflet with the morgue's contact information.

"Is there anything else that the RCM could do for you?"

"No. I'll call you if something comes up, I'm still a bit..." She rubs her face, blotchy and numb.

"Sorry I couldn't do this, I have a brain condition..." (Tap on your head.)

"A brain condition?"

Yes. You're a total fucking horror show.

No-no! Stop now.

"You know what, it doesn't matter. I'll just... leave."

"Again, if there's anything we could do for you, then don't hesitate to call the RCM, ma'am."

She just nods, distant and inconsolable. The bed springs rattle beneath her as she begins to shake.

These are her last reserves of strength. Her muscles will give in soon. To a scream.

"I'll take it from here. Thank you." She points at the front door, breathing fast now. Holding herself back.

[Set the library card by her. Leave the room.]

"I'll take it from here. Thank you." She points at the front door, breathing fast now. Holding herself back.

"I drank too much and now I can't do anything right anymore."

"Yes," she says sharply, "that's what happened to Victor too."

"Apologies, my partner," the lieutenant steps in, giving you a sideways glance, "did not mean to make light of the situation."