Ive been lying here with a fever for two days, and you couldnt even make me a cup of tea! Youre no husband, you useless wretch! Now, if you want to eat, youll have to cook for yourself.
David David, please go to the chemist.
The voice was foreign, dry and brittle, like last autumns leaves. Eleanor barely recognised it. He cleared his parched throat, and each syllable rang in her head like a dull, scorching blow. She lay pressed against a sweatsoaked pillow, staring at a ceiling that seemed to lower slowly, threatening to crush her. Her body had become a single, smouldering hearth of pain. Every joint, every bone felt like shards of broken glass, and even the tiniest turn of her head sent a fresh wave of agony. The heat was not merely a temperatureit was a living thing settled beneath her skin, filling her muscles with lead and melting her from within.
From the livingroom came the rhythmic clatter of keys and angry mouse clicks, punctuated by short, guttural exclamations. That was Davids world. The world he dove into headfirst, his massive headset looming like an aviators helmet. In that virtual realm battles raged, bases were seized, digital blood sprayed. There he was someone importantcommander, hero. In their cramped London flat he was merely a hunched silhouette in a gaming chair.
David, can you hear me? I feel terrible. I need something for the fever and something for my throat.
She saw his back: broad, strong, now tensed by the thrill of the game. He didnt turn. Only his left hand briefly left the keyboard, making an indecipherable gesture in the air that meant I hear you, I understand, leave me alone.
Right, in a moment
Moment never arrived. Time thickened into a sluggish, pulling mass. Minutes merged into hours. The sliver of sunlight that slipped through the window frame turned to grey dusk, then vanished into a dense darkness. Eleanor would tumble into a sticky, nightmarish sleep where hot waves and grotesque shadows chased her, then snap back to the harsh reality of pain, thirst and the endless soundtrack of his battle. She longed for a simple chicken brothnot a gourmet dish, just a hot, salty liquid that could warm her from the inside and return a drop of strength.
At some point the livingroom sounds shifted. A doorbell chimed, a brief conversation, a rustle. Then a scent rolled through the flat: thick, spicy, irresistibly appetisinghot dough, melted cheese, pepperoni. Pizza. He had ordered a pizza for himself. The thought did not ignite anger; there was simply no energy left for fury. It sparked a wave of mute, hopeless despair. He sat ten metres away, eating, living, enjoying, while she, in their shared bedroom, slowly dissolved in fever, forgotten like a useless object.
Summoning the last shards of will, she called again, her voice now a croak.
David water, please Im dying of thirst.
This time he reacted. He pulled off one earcup and turned his head. His face, bathed in the blue glow of the monitor, was alien and unfamiliar. His eyes shone with the thrill of the game, a halfsmile of anticipated victory frozen on his lips. He looked at her but did not truly see. His gaze skimmed her as if she were a piece of furniture.
Just a sec, Im finishing the match. Almost the finale.
He slipped the headset back on, and the wall of sound sealed him off from her completely. Eleanor closed her eyes. Just a sec that careless phrase became the final nail driven into the lid of her patience. She no longer pleaded. She simply lay, feeling a hot tear crawl down her cheek, evaporating on her scorching skin. She was not merely ill; she was utterly alone. Absolutely, singularly alone in a flat with a man who had once promised to stand by her in both sorrow and joy. A fever of nearly forty degrees fit into none of those categories.
Time ceased to exist. It dissolved into a series of sticky, heavy dreams and brief, painful awakenings. Eleanor could not tell whether a day or an eternity had passed. At one fleeting instant she sensed the fire within her dying out, replaced by a freezing, exhausting weakness. Her body, moments ago a glowing furnace, now felt foreign and cold. The sheets beneath her were damp and tacky, and a vile taste of sickness lingered in her mouth.
Thirst overwhelmed her not a polite wish for a drink, but a scream from every dehydrated cell. She slid her legs off the bed, and the room quivered, swayed, losing its edges. Eleanor clutched the mattress edge with her fingers, bracing against nausea. The noises from the livingroom didnt disappear; they merely changed pitch. No longer a frantic gunfire, they became a resonant echo of Davids occasional comments to invisible chat companions. He was alive; his world kept spinning.
The path to the kitchen became a climb up Everest. Each step reverberated like a thunderous echo in her temples. Gripping the wall as if she were an ancient, frail statue, she shuffled forward, swaying. The corridor air was stale, scented with something sour and old. Emerging from the halfdark bedroom into the kitchenliving area, she was briefly blinded by daylight and froze, trying to focus. When her vision cleared, she saw
It wasnt just a mess; it was a monument to selfishness erected over the two days shed spent in a personal hell. On the coffee table stood a pyramid of three pizza boxes, their greasy stains hardened into crusty plaques. Beside them lay a mountain of energydrink cans and a sticky ring of spilled cola. The sink harboured a tower of dirty plates, mugs and forks drowning in murky water that reeked of rot. Crumbs and wrappers littered the floor. He hadnt merely neglected cleaning; he had deliberately turned their home into a personal trash cavern, the only bright spot being the glow of his monitor.
Eleanors eyes shifted to him. David sat, back turned, still in the same chair, the same headset. He didnt notice her arrival. He was immersed in a world where everything was simple and clear, where there were no sick wives, no domestic duties, no responsibility.
She moved to the fridge, flung it open, and greedily seized a bottle of mineral water. She gulped large, desperate swallows, feeling the lifegiving liquid reviving her. At that moment, hearing the fridge doors swing, David finally turned. He removed the headset, and a lazy, indifferent curiosity flickered across his face. He glanced at herpale, dishevelled, in a threadbare Tshirtand a crooked smile curled his lips.
Oh, finally up? Im starving.
The words fell into the hollow of her consciousness like a stone into a deep well. Not How are you? nor Do you need anything? but a flat, consumergrade Finally up. As if she were a broken appliance finally repaired, ready to serve again. And his need was simple: Im hungry. In that instant her physical frailty evaporated, replaced by a searing, crystalclear rage. She looked at him, at the piles of rubbish, and for the first time in two days felt unbelievably strong.
The universe that had been wobbling and swimming before her eyes suddenly froze, taking on a sharp, ringing clarity. The weakness that had clouded her mind burned away, incinerated by a white flame of fury. It was not a tantrum, not a petty whim; it was an explosiona deep, tectonic shift that David, lost in his pixelated fastfood bliss, could not have foreseen.
You want to eat? Eleanors voice cracked, not from weakness but from terrifying tension. It rang like ice cracking. Are you serious? Ive been sweating for two days, cant even stand to get to the loo! I begged you, like a beggar, to fetch medicine! And you were finishing a match! I was so thirsty my lips stuck to my teeth, while you ate pizza, its smell drifting into my bedroom! I was choking, and you didnt even come near!
She didnt scream; she spat words, each a heavy, sharp stone hurled into his impenetrable calm. The accusations were so concrete, so undeniable, that they could not be brushed off with a casual its my fault or youre exaggerating.
David watched the outburst with lazy superiority. He slumped back in his chair, arms crossed, a patronising adult expressionone Eleanor hated mostplaying over his features as he listened to the nonsensical babble of a child. He waited, expecting the verbal tide to run out, for her to sigh, so he could slip the headset back on. To him it was merely background noise.
Finally, Eleanor fell silentnot because she ran out of words, but because the futility of it all became crystal clear. She stared at him, at his pose, at the faint smile tugging at his mouth, and all her rage condensed into a cold, heavy ball in her chest.
David paused, then, with mock concern, asked:
Got it all out?
That was the final mistake. He expected tears, a continuation, some drama to feed his ego. He wasnt ready for what came next.
Eleanor met his gaze for a few seconds, then turned her back. In her eyes there was no more pain, no more spiteonly the cool, detached determination of a surgeon before an operation. She then spoke, voice low and fierce:
Ive been lying here with a fever for two days, and you couldnt even make me tea! Youre not a man, you pointless creature! Now, if you want to eat, eat yourself!
With those words she ripped open the fridge. A rush of cold vapor burst out, cloaking her figure. David watched, bewildered. Was she going to eat alone? Declare a boycott? The thoughts seemed childish, absurd. She didnt take a plate. Instead her hands settled on a massive fivelitre pot containing a darkred borscht she had managed to simmer before falling ill. She hauled it onto the floor, then reached for a heavy container of golden pilaf, rice perfumed with meat and spices, and set that down too. Next came a pot of goulash, braised cabbage, chicken cutletseverything she had been methodically preparing for days of meals ahead.
David stared at the battery of pots and containers scattered across the kitchen floor, still trying to grasp her intention. It fit no logical pattern in his mind. His face froze into a baffled, dumbfounded grin. He opened his mouth to speak, but Eleanor, without looking back, hefted the heaviest pot of borscht and, with a firm step, headed toward the bathroom.
The bathroom door was ajar. The white ceramic toilet, usually a mundane fixture, now resembled a sacrificial altar. Eleanor stood over it, the pot balanced in her hands, hands steady. She tipped forward slightly, and the thick, rubyred broth, flecks of meat and vegetables visible, cascaded with a dull splash into the water. The scent of beetroot, garlic and hearty stockhome, comfort, carefilled the small space, mingling with the sharp sting of bleach.
David, frozen in the kitchen doorway, watched in disbelief. His brain could not process the scene; it was beyond his comprehension, absurd.
What are you doing? Already?
She gave no answer. She watched the last potatoes disappear in the swirl, then, with mechanical precision, pressed the flush. The roar of water roaring in a furious vortex became her sole replyloud, final, like a period at the end of a long sentence. She placed the empty pot on the tiled floor, turned and walked back to the kitchen.
Only then did the full scale of what was happening sink in. This was not a sudden tantrum; it was methodical, cold destruction.
Have you lost your mind?! he shouted, clutching a container of pilaf. This is food! Ingredients! Do you even realise how much this costs?!
His scream was not aimed at her but at the containers, at the value he perceived in them. He shouted about money, about work, about waste. Not at her. Eleanor passed him, as if he were empty air. Another portion of carefluffy rice, tender meatfollowed the borscht, sinking into the drain before vanishing. Again the flush, again the deafening roar.
Davids fury peaked. He lunged across the kitchen, arms flailing, his face flushed crimson.
Whats wrong with you?! Just dump everything! All the food! How am I supposed to eat, then?! You cooked it, and now youre pouring it down the loo! This is insane!
But his words no longer weighed anything for her. They were merely background noise. She moved with the measured rhythm of a conveyorbelt machine. Goulash. Cutlets. Braised cabbage. Each trip from kitchen to bathroom was a step further away from him, from the life they had shared. She ignored his shouts, continued her chosen taskerasing every bridge, every thread, every material manifestation of the care he had taken for granted.
When the final pot was emptied, she returned to the kitchen. A whole heap of dirty dishware, still exuding the smell of food, lay on the floor. David breathed heavily, pressed against the wall, his gaze burning with unspent anger. He waitedfor explanations, for another outburst, for anything.
Eleanor surveyed the battlefield, then calmly opened the fridge again. In the corner sat a small plastic container she had not touched. She lifted it. Inside lay a couple of chicken cutlets and a spoonful of buckwheather portion, her dinner. With the container in one hand and a clean fork from the drawer in the other, she walked toward the bedroom.
Is that all?! he rasped, turning his back. Youre just going to leave? And me? What am I supposed to do with all this?!
She paused at the bedroom door, but did not look back. For a heartbeat he expected her to speak again. She simply slipped inside, closed the door, and the sound that followed was louder and more terrifying than any of his screams.
Click.
The dry, metallic click of a key turning in a lock.
David was left alone. Alone amidst the wrecked kitchen, surrounded by empty boxes and filthy dishes. Alone, with an empty fridge and a gnawing, hollow hunger. Behind the closed bedroom door, there was no sound. Inside, in her own little world behind a thin wooden partition and a tiny metal latch, Eleanor ate, a film flickering on the TV. She was healing.
