She is bitter.
Her sleep is marred by intervals that consist of lying awake in pitch black darkness and howling silence. The blanket is warm but her heart isn’t. In this state of half-consciousness, she simply asks entities, God, people who witnessed her agony, her friends, and him, she asks, “Why?”
And then she falls asleep.
She is swimming through a lake, thinking of the Catastrophe Theory. The theory by mathematicians, stating that anything and everything can collapse without reason. She pushes forward through the warm water and reaches the bank. Some mathematician must be very happy, she thinks, since his theory took practical form in my life.
She wakes up.
If there’s a Catastrophe Theory then there’s a Resurrection Theory, I tell her. She won’t listen. She won’t listen for now. I don’t blame her.