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Room 11 by Mari.Reiza
Women's Psychological Fiction
About the Book:
After an accident leaves his wife in a coma, he sits on a hospital chair day-in day-out singing to her. Nobody can pull him away from her as she threads through the rage that could save her. Meanwhile, a desperate nurse grows her admiration for him into obsessive desire.
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Anyone can see this man is drawn to his wife with fanatical intensity, beseeching God to give him sense so that he can reconcile the irreconcilable. Paradoxically, through him and his comatose wife I have a vision of order I can aim to, it comforts me to breathe the same air as this man, being part of his landscape. (nurse)
My mother is tight, neat, closed. I want to explode and scare her, show her the real me. I want her to see through to the real me. But I don’t dare, because whenever she’s around I revert to nothing. I wonder if the pain will go once she’s dead. Then I feel guilty. (wife)
He couldn’t learn to do her toes in a hundred years, and surely hopes he won’t have that long, so he gets someone else to come in once a week who also does her wax every three weeks. That’s how my patient’s heels are soft like a baby’s, unlike mine, which are cracked and tired of my body being on my feet all day. Her legs are smooth like silk, whilst sleeping next to me must feel like lying in bed with a horse brush.
‘I have not slept for nights, I have not slept for nights. I do not remember when I ate last, an apple on Thursday.’ I feel like my flow has dried and I can’t fly anymore. (wife)
The man in Room 11 is singing again as he keeps watch on his Salvador Dali girl dripping out of the canvas of the world. ‘We longed for a child but he was stillborn.’ Next he pauses and takes his eyes off me to look out of the window, so I cannot see the hollowness in them. ‘She suffered like a dog,’ he whispers. ‘But we’re ready now, when she comes back.’
Read a Snippet:
It’s not a very romantic arrangement I have with Dr. Patel. I don’t find him very attractive, with shoulders and hips like tatty coat hangers with a bit of old hairy flesh slapped on, and favourite hobbies including reading Stamp Collector’s Magazine and listening to Classic FM. The only ‘exciting’ thing he owns is a recent tattoo of an anchor over his left hip and God only knows what that’s about! It makes me puke the way he feels that I respect him more than fear what he may do if I don’t, ‘with an element of coquetry,’ as he puts it. He’s very proud that he’s helping me, proud of my little single storey house in a not too bad neighbourhood with one and a half bedrooms and a bathroom large enough for a proper bath. He loves soaking in my bath he calls his, reading his Stamp Collector’s Magazine whilst I rub his back. My living room has a fireplace with a mantelpiece where I display a picture of me in my university gown, flanked by my parents. The frame is good quality but slightly hidden amongst towers of pink and purple novel spines screaming love. But I don’t have a picture of the man I loved back in Ghana. Dr. Patel teases me enough already about my university photo, about being a near-doctor by training yet spending my life cleaning hospital floors, and he would tease me more if he knew that I’m still in love with a man who was cut to pieces back home years ago. I know that my humiliations excite him. (nurse)
About the Author:
Mari.Reiza was born in Madrid in 1973. She studied at Oxford University and worked as an investment research writer and management consultant for twenty years in London, before becoming an indie fiction writer. Also by her, Inconceivable Tales, Death in Pisa, Sour Pricks, A Pack of Wolves, STUP, Mum, Watch Me Have Fun!, Marmotte’s Journey, West bEgg, Room 11, Triple Bagger, Caro M, Opera, the Retreat, sells sea shells and aberri (homeland), all available on Amazon.
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