XIV
It’s been six days since Miro died. Emilia won’t speak to me. She won’t look at me. She pretends not to hear me when I speak. Pettiness like this will get us all killed, but she doesn’t seem to care. Sometimes, I think I wouldn’t care if she got herself killed, but there are so few of us left now that any death is to be avoided.
Even the death of a bitter, hateful bitch.
She blames me, of course. I didn’t give him a chance to recover. I wanted him gone because I was jealous. She really believes each lie she tells Topi. She says them all just loud enough for me to hear.
You would think it should make me angry, but it doesn’t. Words have no power any more. I’ve seen a lot of people die. Some of them, I helped. Some, I couldn’t. It’s always the ones left behind that hate me for it. The ones that die are usually grateful.
“She’ll see that this is better,” Topi whispers when Emilia finally falls asleep. “I wish I could have let Anna go that way. I should have trusted you. Anna suffers now because of me.”
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A Writer's Life for Me 