_OceanofPDF.com_The_Girl_on_the_Train_-_Paula_Hawkins

MORNING
I am no longer travelling to my imaginary office. I have given up the
pretence. I can barely be bothered to get out of bed. I think I last brushed
my teeth on Wednesday. I am still feigning illness, although I’m pretty
sure I’m fooling no one.
I can’t face getting up, getting dressed, getting onto the train, going
into London, wandering the streets. It’s hard enough when the sun is
shining, it’s impossible in this rain. Today is the third day of cold,
driving, relentless downpour.
I’m having trouble sleeping, and it’s not just the drinking now, it’s the
nightmares. I’m trapped somewhere, and I know that someone’s coming,
and there’s a way out, I know there is, I know that I saw it before, only I
can’t find my way back to it, and when he does get me, I can’t scream. I
try—I suck the air into my lungs and I force it out—but there’s no sound,
just a rasping, like a dying person fighting for air.
Sometimes, in my nightmares, I find myself in the underpass by
Blenheim Road, the way back is blocked and I cannot go farther because
there is something there, someone waiting, and I wake in pure terror.
They’re never going to find her. Every day, every hour that passes I
become more certain. She will be one of those names, hers will be one of
those stories: lost, missing, body never found. And Scott will not have
justice, or peace. He will never have a body to grieve over; he will never
know what happened to her. There will be no closure, no resolution. I lie
awake thinking about it and I ache. There can be no greater agony,
nothing can be more painful than the not knowing, which will never end.
I have written to him. I admitted my problem, then I lied again, saying
that I had it under control, that I was seeking help. I told him that I am
not mentally unstable. I no longer know whether that’s true or not. I told
him that I was very clear about what I saw, and that I hadn’t been
drinking when I saw it. That, at least, is true. He hasn’t replied. I didn’t
expect him to. I am cut off from him, shut out. The things I want to say
to him, I can never say. I can’t write them down, they don’t sound right. I
want him to know how sorry I am that it wasn’t enough to point them in
Kamal’s direction, to say, Look, there he is. I should have seen
something. That Saturday night, I should have had my eyes open.
EVENING
I am soaked through, freezing cold, the ends of my fingers blanched and
wrinkled, my head throbbing from a hangover that kicked in at about