Download Before I Go to Sleep PDF Book by S. J. Watson - One of the target audience contributors put him on the spot and asked about comparisons to the films. [PDF] Download Before I Go To Sleep Pdf Click button below to download or read this book. Description Memories define us. So what if you lost. BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP S J Watson. and for lesforgesdessalles.info my mother. to Andrew Dell. this book would not have been written without the input of my gang .
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Before I Go To Sleep: A Novel. Read more Miles to Go Before I Sleep: A Survivor's Story of Life After a Terrorist Hijacking. Read more. Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel. Home · Before I Go to Sleep: A Novel Miles to Go Before I Sleep: A Survivor's Story of Life After a Terrorist Hijacking · Read more. S J Watson. BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP. 3. LONDON • TORONTO • SYDNEY. • AUCKLAND • JOHANNESBURG. Before I Go To Sleep 27/1/11 Page 3.
Disease, trauma, drug use. What choice did I have. There was a long pause. I open cupboards: A couple of times a week, give or take.
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Together we rock gently. Taped to the wall. He holds me. I fold back the covers as gently as I can and sit on the edge of the bed. You suffered head injuries. I want to know so many things. In the photograph we are both smiling at the camera. Not only have I screwed a married man. The alarm clock looks complicated. Surely not the last twenty-five years?
He is wearing pyjama trousers that are too big for him. I want to run. Another scream starts to rise in my chest and this one erupts as a strangled gasp. I still have the picture in my hand — the one of me and the man I had woken up with — and I hold it in front of me. He has turned over and snores on.
They are all of me. I choose one at random. It makes me feel better. How I got here. Next to it is a picture of me sitting beside him. Even as my mind tries to reject this information I know.
I lie as still as possible. So this one is not only old and grey. I feel his presence next to me. I see the bathroom door is ajar and go in. I feel like a prospective tenant being shown around a new flat. It was a struggle for a few years.
I untie the bow and open it at random. I am surprised by the roughness of his skin. I sit on the sofa. We get by. Blandly middle class.
I find nothing. When was I that person. Secretarial work. I feel as though I am floating. A few moments later Ben follows me in. In limbo. A picture of me and Ben. So many years of my life. He stands behind me. All is neat. He puts a piece of toast on a plate. He says he will show me round the house. I must have to do this every day. He sits beside me. I have put on a pair of knickers and an old T-shirt that he gave me.
I slam it closed. Not bad. None of it is familiar. Ben goes on. I am not the person I thought I was when I woke this morning. A framed picture of a woodland scene hangs on the wall above the fireplace. I run my hands around the binding. Now he looks as though he works in a bank. We cross the landing and he opens another door. He shows me a living room — a brown sofa and matching chairs.
He looks up at me. I need to anchor myself. As if reading my mind he says. I am smiling. He turns over some more pages.
I close my eyes. Not yet. I feel as if there is only so much I can process. He turns to face me. It is bound in plastic that is supposed to look like worn leather but does not.
After your accident. He gives me a book. I remind myself that whatever is in there is about me. He squeezes my hand. I wonder if I helped to choose the decor.
I nod. This all feels too much. We go out on to the landing. It is just beginning to get light. He must know so much about me. I suppose. I am certain there has been a terrible mistake. My husband. I earn a good enough wage. I want to sit here for a while. I wonder if I had been keen to marry him at all. The scrapbook weighs heavy in my lap. He takes a swig of his coffee before looking back at the book in his lap. What I have achieved. A possible housemate.
Panic begins to rise. This book will tell me who I am. Is your coffee OK? He smiles. The evidence is there — in the mirror upstairs. A bed. Apparently this is my home. I left with a BSc and did teacher training. He has shaved. I can see us both. Just odd things. I feel nothing at all. To look at it feels like snooping. But who was that? I feel calmer. It looks almost identical to the room in which I woke.
I am frightened to discover my past. It is smart. In danger of being lost. Ben comes back in and sets a tray in front of me.
Next to it is a filing cabinet in gunmetal grey. I smile. I close my eyes and try to focus on something. Just behind me stands a man in a suit and tie. I was still studying then.
In the end it is not as bad as I feared. I traced the lines on my forehead.
She is hidden to me. A diary. I am certain that all I would find are messages and lists. Rearranging the unused ones exactly as I had found them. Is that all I am? I take the pen and add another note to the board. I noticed the blotches on my skin.
He turns towards the front door. I chose a pale-blue pair that seemed to have a matching bra and slipped them both on.
Nothing came. But these things do not belong to me. I had sat down at the dressing table to examine my face in the mirror. The dishes are done and neatly stacked on the drainer. I felt that I was going into some kind of battle. Is that OK? This morning I had selected my underwear guiltily. A bit of sea air?
I have been keeping myself busy. I move through the house. When he comes back in he is wearing an overcoat. A light powder. But now I feel empty. A powder compact.
I see that he has written the word Friday on it in neat. They are not part of me. He is trying too hard to make it seem natural. What do I do all day? I want to say but. Not much of a reminder. A woman whose home I am wandering through. I held my breath as I found knickers in silk and lace at the back of the drawer.
Outside the house. I feel like a child kept out of school. I wonder what I would find if I could go back and decipher the layers. All mine. Putting on her make-up. It has important phone numbers in the back of it. There is not a thing in this house that I remember seeing before.
He kisses me. Pack bag for tonight? I pull out a tin labelled chickpeas. I imagine him saying. I sit in an armchair. I press what I hope is the right button. Is that Christine Lucas? Not a single photograph — either around the mirror or in the scrapbook in front of me — that triggers a recollection of when it was taken. I find something that I guess must be the phone that Ben described — it is small.
I smiled and looked at my teeth. Take phone! Under the word Lunch he has noted that there is some leftover salmon in the fridge and added the word Salad? Finally he has written that he should be home by six. I saw only a void. He comes over to where I stand. I pictured a woman — my mother. I look at the carpets. I feel myself tense.
Last Christmas. There is nothing.
I open it and empty its contents on to the sofa. I tried to think of my mother doing something else. Is that really my life? Any Christmas. My purse. How then do I survive. I remember eating cheese on toast. Make sure you take it with you if you go out. I stand up. We go into the hall and he picks up a battered leather satchel by the door.
Sending me off to school. You can use it anywhere. I hear a noise. I am not sure what else to say. It is a dirty grey colour.
He finishes his toast and takes the tray out to the kitchen. My home. My mind feels totally empty. I realize now — doing the same. I open cupboards: I have no memory. It is ringing. I go back into the house. I try to tell myself that this is mine. My wedding. I found some make-up. How did I end up like this? A tune. I promise. I look up at the wipe-clean board that Ben had shown me before he left.
My surname seems as strange as my first name had. I feel as though any solid ground I had attained has vanished again, replaced by quicksand. Are you there? Who knows where I am, who I am? I realize it could be anyone. I feel panic rise in me. My finger hovers over the button that will end the call. Dr Nash. Please answer. I feel my mind begin to spin. Have been. So this is someone else I have no memory of.
Why had Ben not mentioned this doctor before he left this morning? A couple of times a week, give or take. Another person I see regularly who has left no impression on me whatsoever.
You could be anyone. The same could be said of the man I woke up with this morning, and he turned out to be my husband. His voice softens. I know. He explains that our next appointment is today. I think back to what Ben told me this morning, to the list of jobs written on the board in the kitchen. How can he not? He would have told me!
How can we do that? The thought of going out, without Ben, without him even knowing where I am or who I am with, terrifies me. Do you have it? It should be in your bag. Two thousand and seven.
Twenty years later than it should be. You should see our appointment. I wonder if Ben has read them, whether he looks through my things. I decide there is no reason he would. The other days are blank. No birthdays, no nights out, no parties. Does this really describe my life? He explains that he will come and pick me up, that he knows where I live and will be there in an hour. It is old-fashioned, a large dial in a wooden case, edged with roman numerals.
It reads eleven thirty. Next to it sits a silver key for winding it, something that I suppose Ben must remember to do every evening. It looks old enough to be an antique, and I wonder how we came to own such a clock. Perhaps it has no history, or none with us at least, but is simply something we saw once, in a shop or on a market stall, and one of us liked it. Probably Ben, I think. And then, tonight, when he gets home, I will tell Ben. Not when I rely so utterly on him.
Unlike Ben, he does not seem entirely alien to me. I realize I almost find it easier to believe that I have met him before than I do my husband. I need to know what kind of progress he means. When he arrives Dr Nash suggests we go for a cup of coffee. I mostly wanted to talk to you today, anyway.
I was in the bedroom when he arrived and watched him park his car and lock it, saw him rearrange his hair, smooth his jacket, pick up his briefcase. Not him, I thought as he nodded to the workmen who were unloading tools from a van, but then he walked up the path to our house. We could go there? The cold is biting and I pull my scarf tight around my neck. I am glad I have in my bag the mobile phone that Ben has given me.
Glad too that Dr Nash has not insisted we drive somewhere. There is some part of me that trusts this man, but another, larger part tells me he could be anyone. A stranger. I am an adult, but a damaged one. I am as vulnerable as a child. We reach the main road that separates the end of the street from the park opposite, and wait to cross.
The silence between us feels oppressive. I had intended to wait until we were sitting down before asking him, but find myself speaking.
How did you find me? He is smiling. I wonder if I ask him the same question every time we meet. I heard about you through the literature on the subject, and tracked you down.
There have been a couple of case studies written about you. I got in touch with the place where you were being treated before you came to live at home. Why did you want to find me? I believe they can be helped; however, they require more intensive input than the usual one hour per week. I had a few ideas about how real improvements could be effected and wanted to try some of them out. The definitive work, you might say. He clears his throat. I believe we can discover a lot more about the way memory works than we already know.
I feel myself get anxious, uptight. Brain disorders. Tracked you down. I try to breathe, to relax, but find I cannot. There are two of me, now, in the same body: And you seem to know more about me than I know about myself.
Every day you wake up as if you are a young woman. Some days you wake as if you are a child. A doctor. The man at home is your husband. Since long before your amnesia began. We head there, and I take a seat at one of the chipped Formica tables while Dr Nash orders our drinks. When he returns he is carrying two plastic cups filled with strong coffee, mine black, his white. He adds sugar from the bowl on the table but offers none to me, and it is that, more than anything, that convinces me we have met before.
He looks up and asks me how I hurt my forehead. My make-up has clearly not covered it. He stirs his coffee. He looks up. At first your condition was so severe that you required round-the-clock care. It has only been fairly recently that Ben felt he could look after you alone.
He nods. There is a pause. We both sip our drinks. I think he must. He sighs, and closes his eyes. Yet he does not look untrustworthy. I want to believe he can help me. But he has always been extremely reluctant to let you see these professionals. He has made it very clear that you have had extensive treatment before, and in his opinion it has achieved nothing other than to upset you. Naturally he wanted to spare you — and himself — from any more upset. I did approach Ben first.
We spoke on the phone. I even asked him to meet with me so that I could explain what I had to offer, but he refused. So I contacted you directly. He looked down at his drink. I waited until you came out of the house and then introduced myself.
Just like that? I had to persuade you that you could trust me. I suggested that we should meet once, just for one session.
I said I would explain to you why I wanted you to come and see me, and what I thought I could offer you. You felt that was better. Though progress is somewhat difficult to quantify exactly. But lots of memories seem to have come back to you over the last few weeks — many of them for the first time, as far as we know.
And there are certain truths that you are aware of more often, where there were few before. Or me. That is the progress he is talking about. Perhaps he means I can make it to the shops or a library without a chaperone, though right now I am not even sure that much is true. In any case, I have not yet made enough progress for me to wave it proudly in front of my husband. Not even enough for me to always wake up remembering I have one. It is almost empty.
There are voices from a small kitchen at the back, the occasional rattle as the water in an urn reaches boiling point, the noise of children playing in the distance. It is difficult to believe that this place is so close to my home and yet I have no memory of ever being here before. Anything at all? As far as I know I am meeting you for the first time today. It seems you know more on some days than on others. Yet I can remember some things from years ago. My childhood. WordPress Shortcode.
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Embeds 0 No embeds. No notes for slide. A Novel For Free 2. Book Details Author: Hardcover Brand: Description "As I sleep, my mind will erase everything I did today.
I will wake up tomorrow as I did this morning. Thinking I have a whole lifetime of choice ahead of me.