If Sebastian hadn’t died, if I hadn’t developed the photographs, if her blood hadn’t spurted in an incriminating arc against my window pane. But all that is behind me now. The reflected lights from the harbour squiggle through the water towards the boat like electric eels. We are told to get our documents ready. I fumble in my bag for the passport. My fingers close round it, the unfamiliar hard edges. The photo inside is of a brown haired woman with tired eyes, who could almost be me but is not. As the boat scrapes against the dock I say my new name out loud for the first time. It burns in the cold air in front of me. It consumes me. This is what it feels like to let go.
There is an explanation for this craziness and you can find it here.