Henning Mankell owns Wallander.

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This story picks up right after Hemligheten. (The Secret)


trådar

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3.09 am

THE pills she takes, for sleeping, aren't good any more because she's gotten so damned used to them. So she can't sleep.

For God's sake. It's only been a week.

It's only been seven days. Of hell. On Tuesday she didn't even show up for work, how would she, after those looks- pity, worry, all that shit; not quite so long after the heavy-laden "why not take the week off, Linda? Why not take it easy?"

Easy.

Easy, for fuck's sake? Are they sick in the head, playing some kind of game with her? Or is it only their fucked up way of coping?

"Bloody hell", she says, though no one listens. But she's still angry, desperate, disoriented. So fucking heartbroken.

Sitting on the couch she can almost feel him there sitting by her, still going about the words that still haunt her.

I've never felt so damned alone in my life, his ghost whispers in the air, and her tears hit the parquet where in her younger years it would/could/should have been

blood.

And an empty bottle of whisky betrays what her shaking hands try to keep a secret.

But one can only keep so many secrets.

The tip of the gun tastes sour, just a bit like cold and loneliness and dirty snow, but soon it'll taste like powder, soon, when it's too late for her to notice.

And when she reckons –a fleeting thought– that she knows what she's doing, a thousand and one snapshots of the same memory flash through and make her crazy. She damned well knows what she's doing. She learned it in his living room a living hell of a week ago.

She tightens her grip, eyes shut tight in repentance and grief and repentance; she forgets to pray.

It was quiet until it becomes still. As if the wind had stopped howling outside the glass windows.

When the gun scattered to the ground and her hand drops by her side she's dead, and the parquet stains red where it should've only been whisky.

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A/N:

trådar: threads.

This is not a one-shot.

I'd like to know your opinion :)