“Then I’ll do it.”
“No,” said Kate. “I will.”
Suddenly, I found myself staring into Kate’s eyes. They were huge, wild, terrifying.
“This is for Lana,” she hissed.
“No, no—”
And then, in absolute terror, I started to scream.
I was screaming for Lana, of course. I had no idea if she was out of earshot, but she had to hear me. She had to save me.
“LANA! LANA!”
I felt Kate’s fingers on the gun, slipping over mine—forcing my finger onto the trigger. I realized, with absolute certainty, that the sensation of Kate’s fingers on mine, the gun against my head, the wind against my face … were the last things I’d ever feel.
“LAAANA—”
Kate pushed my finger down on the trigger.
“LAN—”
My scream was cut short. I heard a click—and an enormous bang. Everything went dark.
And my world disappeared.
ACT V
I know this is wrong. But stronger than my conscience is my fury.
—EURIPIDES, Medea
1
Lana woke up in the dark.
She wasn’t sure where she was—or what the time was. She felt groggy and confused.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, and she made out the shape of a large window, with its curtains drawn. Tinges of light were appearing around the edges, creeping in from outside.
It’s morning, she thought. And I’m on Elliot’s couch.
As she took in the debris surrounding her, from the carnage last night—the coffee table, strewn with empty bottles of wine, bottles of vodka, various glasses, loose marijuana buds, ashtrays overflowing with joints and cigarette ends—her memory returned. She had come over here late last night. The reason for her visit also came back to her—the discovery of Kate and Jason’s affair—and she was flooded with pain.
Lana lay still for a moment. She felt so sad, weary, utterly broken. It took an effort to summon the strength to stand up. She managed to lean on the arm of the couch and pulled herself up. She got to her feet. Slightly unsteadily, she started gathering her things.
Then, across the room, she saw the figure of a man—fast asleep, face down at the desk.
It’s Elliot, she thought.
She cautiously made her way through the wreckage. She stood above the desk. She watched me sleep for a moment.
Memories of last night came back to her—and she remembered, when she needed a friend the most, when she was desperate, out of her depth … Elliot Chase was there—supporting her, holding her up, keeping her head above water.
He is my rock, she thought. Without him I’d drown.
Despite herself, Lana smiled suddenly—remembering that crazy plan of revenge we had concocted together, at the height of her lunacy.
We got carried away. But we were carried away together—partners in crime. Partners.
As she stood there, looking at me, she felt such love in that moment. It felt as though, in Lana’s mind, I were emerging from a mist—stepping out of a fog. She felt she was seeing me clearly for the first time.
He looks just like a little kid.
She studied my face, affectionately. She knew the face so well, but had never looked closely at it before.
It was a pale face, weary looking. A sad face. Unloved.
No. That’s not true, she thought. He is loved. I love him.
And then, peering at me in the dim light, Lana experienced a life-changing moment of clarity. She understood that not only did she love me; but she had always loved me. Not with the mad passion that Jason inspired in her, perhaps; but with something quieter, more lasting—and deeper. A great love, a true love, born of mutual respect, and repeated acts of kindness.
Here, at last, was a man on whom she could depend. A man she could trust. A man who would never leave her, or cheat on her, or lie to her. He would only give her what she needed most. He would give her companionship, kindness—and love.
Lana felt a sudden urge to wake me up—to tell me how much she loved me.
I’ll leave Jason, she was about to say. And you and I can be together, my love—and we can be happy. Forever and ever and—
Lana reached out to touch my shoulder—but something made her stop.
My notebook was on the desk, under my right hand.
It was open, and its pages were covered with scribbled writing. It looked like a draft of a script, perhaps—or a scene from a play.
One word jumped out at her: Lana.
She peered at it more closely. Other words popped out at her—Kate … Jason … and gun.
It had to be that mad idea from last night. Silly man, she thought, he must have begun writing it down, before he passed out. I’ll make him destroy it when he wakes up. Lana assumed that, like her, I would wake up sober, and wiser.