The Subject

She went to the kitchen. She got a trash bag.

She moved through the apartment with brutal efficiency.

Mug. Trash. Sweater. Trash. Hairpin. Trash.

She went to the bookshelf. She found The Book of Disquiet. The one they had read together.

She threw it in the bag.

She stripped the sheets off the bed. They smelled like bergamot and sex. She stuffed them into the bag.

She scrubbed the counters. She vacuumed the rug. She opened the windows to let the cold air scour the scent of Jasmin out of the room.

She sat at her desk.

She opened the black notebook.

She picked up the pen.

Subject: Jasmin.

She pressed the pen into the paper until the tip bent.

Classification: Observer. Parasite.

She wrote it in big, block letters.

Then she ripped the page out. And the next one. And the next one.

She tore the notebook in half. It took effort. The binding resisted. But she ripped it until the spine snapped.

She threw the pieces into the bag.

She tied the bag shut.

She carried it down to the dumpster in the alley.

She threw it in.

It landed with a heavy, final thud.

She went back upstairs.

Her apartment was perfect. It was silent. It was empty.

It was a tomb.