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Brownstone. Home.
Gone, gone, he thinks, gone into the void—where? Don’t know, but she is gone.
She, she, she, she, she—her, her name, her face, who is she—Watson. Joan Watson. Former surgeon. Fighter. Consultant.
Former.
He closes his eyes.
Hands on head.
Former, former, former, he repeats in his mind, thoughts racing through him. She is there, not there, always there, everywhere. Turned the corner and there she was, then wasn’t, then forgotten. She was there, he swears she was there. Outfit, coat, hair, everything—she was there. But she wasn’t.
She, she, she.
Joan Watson.
Where did she go? Nowhere. But gone. She is there, not there. All around. He opens his eyes. Colors blur. In the room? No. Gone. Remember, remember—she’s gone. Your fault.
All your fault.
Guilty.
He closes his eyes.
Rise, all rise, court is now in session. His hands reach for something, what is it? A plate? Glass. It shatters. Everywhere. She’s everywhere now. She.
He screams. Joan! Stay with me, he thinks. Don’t walk out the door. Don’t go out. Stay in. Everything’s okay. It can wait. Don’t go. Don’t smile.
“I’ll be right back,” she repeats, over and over again.
“I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Phone in his hands. He dials her number. Dial tone. “The number you have reached…” Hang up.
Try again.
Dial tone.
“The number you have reached…”
Hang up.
Phone’s on the ground, broken, two pieces. He steps once, twice, three times, four times, glass in his feet, blood on the floor. He doesn’t care. He keeps mumbling. “Where are you?” He mumbles. “Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?”
He’s pacing. More blood on the floor, more glass in his feet. He cannot feel it. He looks out to the door. Open, open, open—where is she? She’s gone, remember? You did it. You did it. You made her. No, he thinks, he didn’t. She left.
“I’ll be right back.”
She lied.
No, not a lie. It was the truth, he thinks. Truth. All good things must come to an end.
Police lights outside his home. They were there before, not there now. He’s seeing things, he knows this, but he still looks outside. Nothing’s there, but there were lights before. Bell. Doorbell. Then Bell. Then knocks. Open door.
“We found her.”
Found?
Where?
“We need you to help identify…”
Not there.
“I’ll be right back.”
No, he whispers, no, no, no. She’s right here, right upstairs. Up the stairs, open door. Room is still there. Bed is still there. She’s not.
She’s gone.
He screams again.
Head in hands.
She’s not there anymore. She is on a table—not on a table. Was on a table. Eyes closed. Mouth closed. Bruises. Blood. So much. So little. Enough. Now couple miles away. Her new home. No, he thinks, she should be at Brownstone, not under stone.
No, why isn’t she back?
“I’ll be right back.”
No, he thinks. It’s real.
Don’t be real.
It is.
Real.
Not a trip.
Real.
Joan Watson.
Gone.
The needle drops.
So does he.