The blindfold is sliding down and I try to push it back up with my nose, my eyebrows, but it wasn't tied tightly enough to stay. The room is darkened, and I think the walls are spiked, but no - it's soundproofing foam. The outline of a door breaks the pattern, there's a small, almost useless light in the ceiling, but the room is otherwise unadorned. Two chairs. One for me, one for her.
The pin of the microphone on my collar pokes uncomfortably, but I'm handcuffed and if I try to use my chin I'm sure I'll stab myself. I try anyway. It digs deeper and I decide to stop trying before they think it's a pathetic attempt to die. I was given a list of rules, and the prohibition of suicide was foremost. It's not my decision to make, the clipboard reminded me.
The door cracks and cold air rushes in. It stings my eyes. The door stays cracked, but only cracked, for a minute and I think she's right out there, waiting, debating. She could decide now, without speaking to me. That's her prerogative.
When she does enter I'm shocked. She's aged a decade in the year since the trial. Her eyes and the skin around them are raw red, her nose too. She's been crying. She is slumped like her back is broken and her steps are tentative, like every one of them hurts. She doesn't immediately look at me.
She recoils when she sees my eyes. I look at the floor. "They said you'd be...," she says and gestures to my face. "I'm sorry. It fell off," I respond. She hesitates, and I make a point of clanking my cuffs against the back of the chair. "I'm still cuffed."
She sits and makes herself small, drawing in her legs, folding her hands, bowing her head. When she speaks it's a whisper, and if she's breathing I can't see it. "I don't want to be here," she says, and I can tell this is practiced. "I want to leave right now." She shudders, and I think maybe she's cold. She inhales, gathering herself.
"I do not want to make this decision, but it's my right and duty," she repeats something she's practiced. "Part of me wanted to just sign the papers outside. I wouldn't have to see you, wouldn't have to listen to you." Her voice wavers. "But I wanted you to hear me, and I know I owe you a chance to say... I don't know. A chance to say whatever you needed to say."
She looks up and stares at me. I have to look at the floor, but she says no. "Look at me when I say this." I do. The draft is drying out my nose and I wish I could scratch it. "You took him from me." She restarts. "You took Peter from me, and every day I wake up thinking he'll be there, and he's not, and every day I suffer his loss again. All over again."
She points a finger into my face. "You hurt him, and it may have been accidental, but you killed him and you killed me and I want you dead." Her finger shakes, her arm shakes, and I know it's not the cold. "But it won't bring him back and it's not what he would have wanted. I just want you gone, out of my life, to no longer be in my thoughts." She presses a finger hard to her temple. "Here, you're here, and even if I kill you you'll be here."
She stops and lowers her gaze to her lap. "So I don't know what to do." She's quiet. "Now, you go," she says. "Tell me how to decide."
"There's no right choice," I say. "I want to live and I want to die, and I'm fine leaving the decision up to you, because I don't know what to do myself." She's staring at the ceiling, letting the tears pool in her eyes. "He's here with me too, and I think about him often. Not as much as you, I know, but he's always with me."
"If you decide I die, know that I won't hate you. I'll understand. And if you decide I live, know that I'll be at your service. Or I'll leave you alone. I'll do whatever you ask. If you want, I'll start a fund in Pete's memory. I'll donate my organs. I'll never drink again, never drive again unless I have to. I swear." This should be enough.
A minute passes while we let it sink in. She's stopped crying. When she looks back down to me her lips are a tight line. She's not blinking. "Peter," she says. "His name was Peter. Nobody called him 'Pete.'" She wipes her face with her sleeve. "Well, I mean, some of his friends..." "No," she interrupts. "No one called him 'Pete.' His father is Pete and he's Peter." She pauses. "You'd know that if you'd ever really spoken to him."
She inhales deeply and relaxes in her chair. "Oh god," she says to no one. "Oh god," she laughs. She puts a hand over her mouth. "You really didn't even know him, did you?" She cocks her head and looks me over. "All this time I thought you were his friend... but you're just nobody."
"Oh, hon," she says and puts a warm palm up to my face. "No, no, no. You're just some asshole who worked with him. I always wondered why..." Her eyes widen as the realizations keep hitting her. "Oh, child," she says. She leans in to kiss me on the forehead. She whispers into my ear. "All this time, I thought I had to choose between keeping his killer alive or killing one of his friends."
She sits back and laughs. "Oh, all this guilt. This decision - you wouldn't believe how it weighs on you." She stands and straightens her dress, and she turns to leave. "Just so you know," she says to the door, "you die because you lied to me. You lied to a widow. Driving drunk? I don't know if that's worth killing over." She's gulping breath, half-laughing, half-crying.
"But this..." She rises and turns to leave. She looks over her shoulder as she presses against the door. "I wonder if I'll remember your face a year from now." She studies me. "I doubt it." Her smile is sad, but fierce. "Say hello to Peter for me."