5. Where Love Outlived Breath

“Tomorrow we are going to see your doctor, because I simply need professional help to get you out of this funk. It is normal that you are mourning, and you have every right to, but this behaviour of yours kind of freaks me out. In all the years I have known you, you have never behaved like this. Frankly, it scares me a bit. You don’t have to be crazy to go to a psychologist, and perhaps talking to one might help you handle your loss.” I said to Sylvia when we got home.

Not a word.

There was no observable reaction, even if she had heard me at all.

What a way to celebrate your birthday. After dinner, of which Sylvia might have eaten two bites, she silently went upstairs. I asked her if she needed anything, but I never got a response.

About an hour later, I heard a loud bang from above. As I rushed to Sylvia’s room, I already had a bad feeling about this. I knocked on her door.

“Sylvia, Syl! Are you okay? Can I come in?” I shouted at the door.

Only silence in return.

I opened the door, revealing a sight that froze my blood and sent a chill down my spine.

Sylvia was hanging on a rope attached to a bolt in the ceiling where a hanging plant had hung. Some people freeze in stress situations. I don’t. I act.

“No, no, no — please don’t die, Sylvia!”

I rushed forward, put back the chair she had kicked away, climbed on it trying to lift my friend from underneath, but it wobbled uselessly. No good. Faster. Think. Think, you moron!

My eyes darted around the room. On the bedside table I kept a pair of scissors. It was still there, thank God. I scrambled back and climbed into the chair.

“Hold on, Sylvia. Hold on, Sylvia. Hold on, girl.”

With clumsy fingers slick with sweat, I started sawing at the rope just above the knot. The fibres resisted. I cursed, screamed, and cursed some more. Frantically, I kept sawing. Why was this blade so blunt? Little by little I made progress. Too slow. I have to be faster. With all the power I had, I tried to cut through the rope. Little by little. Too slow. Sylvia’s face looked pale, lips tinged with blue.

Finally, the rope snapped.

Sylvia collapsed into my arms, dead weight. We both fell hard onto the floor.

I turned Sylvia onto her back and tilted her head. I leaned close - no breath. Without thinking, I pinched her nose and gave two rescue breaths, watching her chest rise slightly.

“One, two, three, four...” I started chest compressions, counting aloud between sobs. “Five, six, seven—come on, don’t you dare leave me—”

Thirty compressions. Two more breaths. Then again. I didn’t stop. I would not allow her to die. Time no longer existed—just the rhythm. Adrenaline surged through my veins.

With a sudden, violent spasm in her chest, Sylvia emitted a weak, rasping breath that boomed in the still room.

“Oh, my God—Syl!” I turned her into a stable lateral position. Sylvia gagged, her face still unimaginably pale.

“You’re okay. You are going to be just fine.” I cried. With trembling hands, I called 112.

“Do you need an ambulance, police or fire brigade?” the efficient voice of the operated asked me.

“Ambulance. And police.” I said, as an afterthought.

I explained what had happened. “Please have someone open the door, but don’t leave her alone.” The operator said.

“I have to. I am alone at home.”

“Does the neighbour have a key to your house?”

“The neighbour on the left.”