Fragmented
Nothing's changed.
You still forget things, do the same tasks over and over again (phone calls, food shopping, making coffee). You still see different versions of the same event (a baby that wasn't, a proposal, allegations).
You still don't know what's really going on.
You're part Mary (druggie, whore, murderer, liar, Ellis' good little girl), part Caroline (artist, innocent, victim, angel, Peter's grieving little wife) and all confusion.
Peter is the man you love and the man you killed (he was so sweet, so good, so soaked with blood). Holloway is the man who follows you around, trying to tie everything together (he believed you for a moment, then those instincts took over). Ellis is your God, your creator (he made you, he broke you, he laughed at your disintegration).
Now, God is dead.
Mary finds that pretty fucking funny.
Holloway still tails you, as if you're going to let your diabolical plot slip out while ordering lunchmeat (half a pound of ham, quarter pound of Swiss and, by the way, I was part of a plot to kill my husband). Caroline's smart enough to know that it wouldn't matter even if you did; she's also moral enough to feel guilty. Mary just knows she won't be caught; decency was never part of her program.
He must know there's no point to it (crass, maybe, but he's not ignorant) but, for some reason, he just doesn't care about the futility.
Usually, you act like you don't know he's there. Sometimes, you engage him in conversation (sweet girl, that's Caroline's thing) other times, you smile wickedly and walk away (bad girl, that's who Mary will always be) but he can never do anything.
Not a fucking thing.
"Mrs. Walker," he says as he approaches you. "Need any help with that?"
"I'm doing fine," you say, counting all the ways the comment is a lie. "And, anyway," you continue, shutting your trunk, "you don't really care if I'm doing well, do you?"
"I care a lot." He smirks, and Mary wants to make that smirk go away. Caroline feels ashamed.
"You shouldn't follow me," you say. "I didn't do anything wrong." Mary has to tag on, "Aren't there other people you could hound? I can't really be the most important person in your miserable life."
His face turns to stone. Caroline trembles; he's going to kill you. Mary thinks he wants to fuck you. He, though, does nothing. "It makes me sick when people get away with murder, Mrs. Walker." He accentuates the last two words, stretching them into an obscenity.
"I didn't get away with anything," you say. Memories -- false, real, you don't know -- flash through your brain. His eyes hold no sympathy when you regain your senses, lazily blinking away the past. "I got away with nothing."
You stumble to the door of your car.
You can't remember where you're supposed to be going.
The house is so empty now. No one visits, no one calls. Mary never wants to go to art class; Caroline feels too bad to spend the ill-gotten gains on extravagance. You don't even know what friends you ever had; how much Ellis made up. How much you are to blame.
Peter still appears. Sometimes, it's the Peter with a million reasons to love you. Others, it's the Peter with a million reasons to kill you. Either way there's a look of falsity in his eyes, one that makes you wonder if he ever really existed.
Maybe this is all just a dream: the house is really dead air, the car belongs to someone else, and the changing of the days is nothing more than marks on a calendar.
Maybe Ellis really was God, and you're his personal project, the one creature he touched with venom. Or perhaps he didn't even exist.
"Caroline," Peter's voice wafts through the room. He's so tender and warm, but you know he's definitely not real. "Caroline," he repeats, softer. "I love you so much."
Mary rolls her eyes; Caroline cries. Then, he's gone, gone for the hundredth time. Mary lights a cigarette; Caroline remembers everything she can.
And you?
You can't do anything.