Veronika Decides to Die. Пауло Коэльо

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      Veronika didn’t know how long she had slept. She remembered waking up at one point – still with the life-giving tubes in her mouth and nose – and hearing a voice say:

      ‘Do you want me to masturbate you?’

      But now, looking round the room with her eyes wide open, she didn’t know if that had been real or an hallucination. Apart from that one memory, she could remember nothing, absolutely nothing.

      The tubes had been taken out, but she still had needles stuck all over her body, wires connected to the area around her heart and her head, and her arms were still strapped down. She was naked, covered only by a sheet, and she felt cold, but she was determined not to complain. The small area surrounded by green curtains was filled by the bed she was lying on, the machinery of the Intensive Care Unit and a white chair on which a nurse was sitting reading a book.

      This time, the woman had dark eyes and brown hair. Even so, Veronika was not sure if it was the same person she had talked to hours – or was it days? – ago.

      ‘Can you unstrap my arms?’

      The nurse looked up, said a brusque ‘No’, and went back to her book.

      I’m alive, thought Veronika. Everything’s going to start all over again. I’ll have to stay in here for a while, until they realise that I’m perfectly normal. Then they’ll let me out, and I’ll see the streets of Ljubljana again, its main square, the bridges, the people going to and from work.

      Since people always tend to help others – just so that they can feel they are better than they really are – they’ll give me my job back at the library. In time, I’ll start frequenting the same bars and nightclubs, I’ll talk to my friends about the injustices and problems of the world, I’ll go to the cinema, take walks around the lake.

      Since I only took sleeping pills, I’m not disfigured in any way: I’m still young, pretty, intelligent, I won’t have any difficulty in getting boyfriends, I never did. I’ll make love with them in their houses, or in the woods, I’ll feel a certain degree of pleasure, but the moment I reach orgasm, the feeling of emptiness will return. We won’t have much to talk about, and both he and I will know it. The time will come to make our excuses – ‘It’s late’, or ‘I have to get up early tomorrow’ – and we’ll part as quickly as possible, avoiding looking each other in the eye.

      I’ll go back to my rented room in the convent. I’ll try and read a book, turn on the TV to see the same old programmes, set the alarm clock to wake up at exactly the same time I woke up the day before and mechanically repeat my tasks at the library. I’ll eat a sandwich in the park opposite the theatre, sitting on the same bench, along with other people who also choose the same benches on which to sit and have their lunch, people who all have the same vacant look, but pretend to be pondering extremely important matters.

      Then I’ll go back to work, I’ll listen to the gossip about who’s going out with whom, who’s suffering from what, how such and such a person was in tears about her husband, and I’ll be left with the feeling that I’m privileged: I’m pretty, I have a job, I can have any boyfriend I choose. So I’ll go back to the bars at the end of the day, and the whole thing will start again.

      My mother, who must be out of her mind with worry over my suicide attempt, will recover from the shock and will keep asking me what I’m going to do with my life, why I’m not the same as everyone else, things really aren’t as complicated as I think they are. ‘Look at me, for example, I’ve been married to your father for years, and I’ve tried to give you the best possible upbringing and set you the best possible example.’