She speaks to him through a closed door, knowing he cannot hear her through his tone-deaf singing and the water gushing down from the shower faucet, but she speaks anyway. She tells him about her day, of how she’s missed him, of how she wishes he would hold her again. She tells him of how she misses his touch, his tenderness, how she misses his body right up against hers in bed, instead of right on the other end of their King size bed.
She sobs as she apologises for her biggest mistake, sitting there leaning against the bathroom door, her tears stain her red cotton nightgown. She tells him she’s sorry, sorry for not being a better mother, sorry for letting go of their son’s hand for even just one second. Sorry that because she was looking at handbags, when she should have been watching their son, they’ll probably never see his sweet face again.
She tells him she needs him and that although he says he’s forgiven her, she knows he never truly can and she’s not quite sure if she can forgive herself either. She tells him how it pains her that he can’t bare to look at her, even now after 18months. How the laughter and love that once filled their home now seems like a lifetime ago.
She bares her soul, as she tells him through her tears that the weight of this load is far too much for her to bear. How she struggles to breathe and how her chest closes up whenever a thought of their son crosses her mind or she sees a photograph of her little boy. How her whole world seems obscured and she is merely a ghost moving through this very dark valley which has become her life.
She confesses all her sins to a closed door and waits for her punishment, more punishment, as much as she can bear, for the only thing she now knows how to do it punish herself. She waits…waits…for the taps to turn and the water to cease running, then she picks up the pistol, closes her eyes and atones for her sins, behind closed doors.