Before the ceiling collapses, your best friend tells you that she is sleeping with your boyfriend. She tells you it didn't mean a thing, the first time. Nothing, the second time, then maybe something. You picture them naked, pushing and sighing. Afterwards, talking about how awful they felt.

You wonder when you last changed into new clothes or when you last called your mother. You touch your arm, skin bobbly like an old jumper, wondering when you last took a bath. You watch your best friend cry, her charcoal-lined eyes filling with black water, like the bottom deck of a sinking ship.

That's when you notice the crack in the ceiling. A small line, no bigger than a fingernail. You once had a knack for noticing things: hairgrips slipped between sofa cushions; the fleshy tire growing around your boyfriend's waist. The slopey way your dad walked before his heart gave way. Your boss, with his rounded face like the curve of a perfect teacup. His arm guiding yours into his office and the quiet clip of the door closing and the way he stands before you. Stop, you say, even though he hasn't touched you, even though he hasn't moved towards you. His hands in the air. Stop.

Your best friend says she is sorry. She says, We are sorry. She touches your knee, where you know you haven't shaved in weeks, possibly months. Maybe you've not seen your naked body in years. Above you, the fingernail crack splits into branches, like a river breaking its banks.

You wonder how you got here, with your knees tight together and your body soft like a doll. Maybe someone is controlling you, lifting your arms and your feet. You spin your head to the side just to prove you can. It makes you dizzy, and someone, maybe you, grips your knee.

There is a sound, like stepping on stiff ice, and you think about how you will survive, buried under bricks and mortar and broken bedframes, next to your best friend's powdered skull. You wonder if it will be much like it has been. You think, I will survive, but you don't believe it. You think perhaps someone will come for you, but you don't believe it. Someone who will step over what is left of your front door, lift you out of the rubble, take you far away, while you hold onto your best friend's arm like a souvenir.

Carlotta Eden is the co-founder of Synaesthesia Magazine. She lives in Berlin.

"Before the Ceiling Collapses" is a finalist for the Mythic Picnic Prize in Fiction.

Read her postcard.

Detail of art on main page courtesy of Daniel Rocal.

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