It's early in the afternoon and

It's been eight weeks since my husband died. I'm at my new home, attempting to knit a sweater. A sitcom is playing on the TV. I don't particularly like it. This morning I had a bowl of cereal for breakfast, and have not eaten since. 

It's been eight weeks since my husband died. I didn't move far after he died. I searched for a place with fewer windows to flatten the coldness in my mind, the edge sat on by my nerves. Early in the afternoon I pick at my fingernails, I chew my gum in the faded murk of the living room. Nothing happens in my new home anymore. I've thought about moving somewhere else, but I'm not sure where I would end up. I told my husband as a joke that we should go live in the Netherlands, when he was alive, and he had said we could not afford it. 

It's been eight weeks since my husband died, and I watched his face turn into a tomatoed mush under the blow of my sledgehammer. I saw the walls creeping with invisible spiders, a siren of cutting white beaconing acid from every square inch of the the drywall, and I felt I ought to do something about it. It's been seven weeks since I dragged his body out of the basement where I had lured him by screeching out monkey noises, and moved him into a couple of trash bags. I saw on the news a story of a political election as I was doing it, and I thought to myself, 'I wish the universe would all collapse into a singularity in about three seconds.' It's been two weeks since I decided to begin renting out a house down the street with his retirement savings because the smell was beginning to get to me and I was afraid it may drive me mad. I could not hire a mover so I stuffed a television and a mattress into his tiny car, wishing he had turned me on more when he was alive. Yesterday, after I had my bowl of morning cereal, I got so drunk I almost felt true sadness and, maudlin and uninhibited, went to go see my new neighbor, who apparently lives alone. I told him of my morning.

"John, I'm needing someone to hold me tonight."

"Okay," he said, staring behind my head.

"I need you to hold me tonight. We can watch movies and eat popcorn." 

"Do you want to take a seat? Why don't you take a seat?" 

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, John," I said, stumbling onto the couch. 

"What's your name, dear?"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking, John. It's Sarah, John, and I think I was always meant to be a happy person."

"Your name is Samrah?"

"I'm need a happy person, John."

"Where do you live, Samrah? Can you tell me where you live?"

"I'm in here now, and I'm needing you now to sit with me, John, come sit, John, sit on me, here, in our couch, in our couch sit and we'll watch a movie and eat popcorn, John, I'll make the popcorn, John, so we can sit here, come on, John, I'm needing you to sit now, with me, please, John, now will you come sit with me, now, John, and on the couch. John?"

"Samrah?"

"Sit on me?"

He refused to accept my companionship or provide me sympathy, and I felt displeased; I thought I was more attractive than that. I killed him by slamming my empty bottle of Jack against his skull and then bashing the leftovers with the back of one of his office chairs. It was white, before, and had six little wheels which I used to spin around in place afterwards, about 14 hours earlier from now.