Chapter 3

I haven't been able to say what it was like to leave the house for a long time. I didn't have pale skin from those who didn't sunbathe. I even left the curtains open or went to my backyard to water some plants, and that made me receive some vitamin D. I didn't have my leg muscles unprepared for escape situations because I even stretched myself from time to time to try to get some utensils that were at the top of the kitchen shelves. I would not fail to receive my orders by the postman, because I had put a sign on my mail saying that the letters should be left under the entrance door. But considering that all these things were not something to expect from Penelope Maxwell, then, yes, I wouldn't leave my house anymore and that was not healthy.

What no one understood was that I started a period of isolation in my home long before the government declared any sudden stop in its daily lives. I had much more fun when I was alone, without having to force smiles or invent last-minute jokes. I felt much more alive when I let myself relax against the couch and stared at the ceiling, in a state of almost vegetation that was much better than watching television - the media, in general, had become very cruel since the changes in the world began. And I would much rather put a song in my room and dance alone, instead of going to some nightclub and letting everyone notice that my movements were hard and uncoordinated because I had not yet recovered enough for it.

If that kind of routine was shown to me before everything had happened, I would have had a good laugh for those who believed that Penelope Maxwell would ever submit to that. I was what everyone affectionately nicknamed "the soul of all parties". It was impossible that one day I could let myself be shaken by any black cloud of depression or socialization difficulties. But that became my reality, without me even realizing it, without being able to do anything to change.

Before I had a real excuse to escape all the family reunions that Suzane invented. I just needed to fake a tired and groggy voice, stay in bed all day, or refuse calls so that everyone believed they could be side effects of analgesics and antidepressants. It was very easy to act that way. It was nothing as exhausting as spending hours listening to my friends complain about problems that were nothing like mine. Nothing as stressful as pretending that their voices and laughter made me feel more and more out of place. So I played a very good role as a victim who needs rest.

But at that time, with the wounds healed, the movements partially recovered, and only two types of medicines to handle, they began to realize that I was doing it on purpose. Even if they didn't dare to expose it to everyone else. Some members of that circle of Suzane's friends realized that I was no longer so adept at the balladry customs of before. Being surrounded by people didn't give me any pleasure. But even if they noticed, they wouldn't avoid calling me. I wouldn't accept it. Sometimes I even pretended that I didn't see my phone ring, even if I was using it, just so I didn't have trouble invent that I was sick or with some pain that the medicines couldn't help.

It wasn't right, I know that. My friends tried hard to fit me into a world to which I no longer belonged. There was no normal life after all the traumas and the consequences of that terrible past. I wouldn't want to believe that one day I would feel comfortable again in a laughing group of people and that I could drink without seeing the time to stop. I couldn't drink anymore, I couldn't dance anymore, I couldn't laugh anymore. And those who allowed themselves to see the harsh truth of what I had become, also saw exactly what would happen if I continued like that.

I've never been against my own life. This type of internship was more difficult to be acquired for someone who has always admired life and freedom. No. The point is that I'm not sure if I would try to divert if any runaway vehicle appeared in my way. I don't know if I would avoid reacting during a robbery with a gun pointed at my head. I don't know if I would avoid taking rain showers in the middle of a torrent of lightning falling to the ground. I don't know if I would avoid death if she came to me. But since she never arrived, I just existed. That's why I think many around me respected me when I said I didn't have the time or courage to go out. Because they feared that I couldn't stand the weight of the world when I got home. Because they also feared that I wouldn't run away from death if she came to pick me up.

That was weird. Even if I didn't confess anything to anyone. Even if I ran away from all the conversations that promised to involve my new apathy for the world. I still couldn't let myself feel like a strange soul, in a fragile body. I could very well have died in that accident, and this part still alive to be just a spark of what was once a living fire of a person who loved to breathe and feel. I could be just one of the other people who realized that the armor that kept her alive had also become a shelled prison. Because the person who stared at me back in the mirror of my room, while I held my cell phone against my ear, and pretended to hear Suzane vent about her day, was not the same one who would have taken pleasure in commenting on the boredom of her best friend's life.

It was bizarre to say that overnight, the person who shook new encounters and nights watered with drunkenness and sex, has become an animal who is ashamed and afraid to go out in public, to face afflictions and problems. It was strange to be the kind of creature who no longer liked the sun and the loud conversations, nor the acoustic music of some bar, nor the alcoholic beverages of dubious shades. I wasn't like that. Many things were different now, but what left me to pieces was to realize that all the people around me — including Suzane — were always worried that my loneliness would make my brain atrophy and that I would become a merciless assassin like...

“Pen?”

“Hm... Suzy, I have to go" I stuttered in a hurry because I felt that that thing was coming back again... The feeling of anguish, the fear, the shaking... Reflexes of post-traumatic stress, they said. But I used to call it "time to go back under the covers and forget the blood I carry".

"Do you feel bad? Do you want me to go there?" She asked in a worried tone.

"You would know the answer if you considered that you are not the only one suffering from the mistakes of the past," I wanted to contradict, but Suzane did not deserve this. She didn't deserve anything I could have said in recent years. It wasn't fair for me to take out my frustrations on her. Not after all.

“No, Suzy!” I let out another rehearsed, false laugh, and I think this time she realized the pretense. “Please finish your bags, and keep me informed of everything. I love you, and Hunt, and your babies with strange names. Bye, Suzy."

I hung up before she whispered for me to wait. And, immediately after releasing the cell phone in bed, I pressed play on my remote control and the television returned to transmitting the sound of the only song I'd been listening to for the last four months. Pumped Up Kicks gradually increased as I let myself be carried away by the cruel and wonderful lyrics, forcing my body to dance, despite feeling that emptiness closer and closer, threatening to break into tears as in every night.