Blue Glass

The Outcast

One week later...

I absentmindedly rapped my knuckles against the edge of the zinc bathtub, the metal cold on my knuckles which were red from the hot water.
It was my third day out of the hospital and I was already wishing I was back there. At least the sight of me in a sickbed wearing a neck brace could arouse sympathy in even the most jaded person on the planet. It would save me from a lot of scolding and berating. Now it was all I got—from Svetlana, from Heinrich, and from my uncle Reinhard through his letters.
All three of those individuals said many different things, but the general question they were asking through all their different statements was, Why? Why did you have to lie? What is your real reason for taking all that money? Why did you kill your mother?
I could never tell them. I promised Manfred I would keep my mouth shut about us and I intended to keep that promise, even if killing someone and trying to kill myself afterwards was what it took to uphold it.
They, however, were quick to take my silence for mounting insanity and decided that the best place for me would be a mental facility.
I didn't care what they said—the opinion of men too blinded by money and masculinity to understand the motives behind my actions didn't concern me. What hurt me was that Svetlana agreed with them—Svetlana, who was supposed to be my best friend and confidante. She hadn't spoken a word to me since I came back from the hospital, doing her chores in stoic silence and avoiding me as best as she could. I stopped trying to get her to talk to me after day two.
Slowly, my schedule returned to normal. I woke up, washed and got dressed myself, made my own breakfast, and went to work. I would spend the rest of the day visiting old friends or walking out in the park, and would come home before dark, where I would eat whatever dinner Svetlana had made for me and go up to my room. I would lock myself in and busy myself reading romance novels with a few bottles of cognac next to me. I almost always drank myself into unconsciousness, blacking out in the middle of a heated scene between two characters only to open my eyes and be met with sunlight streaming into my room.
Giving a valid reason for my prolonged absence  from work had been easy. I told my boss I had suffered a horrible fall and fractured my neck, and he seemed to eat the story up and sent me back to work. Things went on as usual in the office—I did my work, talked to Amalie and Louise during breaks, and went home with either one of them to kill time after the workday was over.
If there was one thing that I couldn't get rid of or change, it was Heinrich's constant hounding of me. Every day, he would call me without fail and threaten to sue me for the money I had "stolen" from him and his father. He would tell me how he was looking for decent mental institutions for me and it was only a matter of time before I would be locked up one.
"You're a danger to society," he said. "Crazy bitches like you deserve to rot in the madhouse, not walk the streets and breathe our air; eat our food."
I listened to what he had to say—I deserved it, after all. I should have known it was going to end like this. Actually, I had had no way of knowing. The plan was to culminate in my death; I would never be able to suffer the consequences of what I had done if I were far out of the reaches of mortals. Up until now I didn't know why the noose had failed to asphyxiate me or snap my neck. Judging by how hard my hands were shaking and how much I had been crying as I lashed the scarves together and made the noose, it was probable that such a mishap could occur.
I dried myself off and made my way down the hall to my room. Once the door clicked shut behind me, I stumbled back against the wall and slid down it to end up on the floor with my knees pulled tightly to my chest. The self-inflicted cuts adorning my calves and forearms were far from gone—although they had closed up and scabbed over long ago, they now manifested themselves as raised scars.
Out of habit, I reached for the bottle of wine sticking out of my bed, but froze when I noticed a rolled up sheaf of papers lying on my bed. It was a newspaper. Svetlana must have put it in my room while I was in the shower.
Although I tried to push it aside as much as I could, I felt a pang of sadness. I didn't understand why Svetlana wouldn't at least let me explain myself to her. I didn't understand why she, who had always stood by me no matter what, had turned on me in a matter of minutes after she learned the true state of affairs.
I picked up the newspaper and my eyes widened when I read the screaming headline across the top of the first page.
"'Rittmeister Von Richthofen scores his 67th and 68th victory!'"
It didn't say anything other than the date, place and time of the victory, followed by a sappy, ass-kissing commentary. Regardless, the article came with a picture of Manfred, resplendent in a crisp dress uniform wearing all his medals, the Pour le Merite at his throat. I hurried over to my desk and took out a pair of squeaky scissors, then began to cut the picture out, along with the article. When I was done, I lovingly flattened the paper out between my fingers and took a moment to admire my handiwork.
The first of many, I thought. And this time, there'll be no one to take me to task for it.
I pulled my only suitcase out from under my bed and threw open my closet noisily, ripping dresses off of hangers and hats off of hooks, tossing them haphazardly into the waiting suitcase.
My boss had previously told me I could take off for as long as I wanted whenever I wanted after I filled him up with exaggerated details about my "injury". I had decided days ago I would use that privilege to my advantage. If Heinrich wanted to see me sent to a mental facility, he would have to try harder. There was no way he would find me in Germany, under an assumed name, in a corner of Berlin so obscure and unfrequented by people of his station that he'd never think to look there. The Lea Schwarz he knew loved opulence and luxury—she lived for it, in fact. He could look for her in the heart of Berlin, and he could look all he wanted—I would be somewhere else, biding my time.
I snorted as I slammed my closet doors shut and began to shove pair after pair of shoes in after my clothes.
Failure. That was what you got if you used the blue blooded brain of an aristocrat—or anyone with a lot of money— to think. Less is more. Being physically rich makes you mentally poor. Sometimes—and only sometimes—I was glad I had been born into a family with no money.
I would jump the night train into Germany. From there, I would find myself an inn and stay there until I found more permanent lodgings. Then I would wait. And I would visit Manfred.
Manfred. The prospect of seeing him again suddenly sounded so distant. What would I say to him? What would he think of me, a murderer? Would he be able to deduce that the Lea Schwarz he used to know didn't exist anymore?