Excerpt: Redemption House (a Novel)

Nice, descriptive, but there's no conflict yet to hook me.  I don't know why she attempted suicide. 
If she wanted to kill herself, why is she grateful to the person that stood in the way of her choice?

Redemption House - Prologue Continued

Ivie came back into the apartment – she had gone outside to empty the trash – and stood by the door for a while, perusing me. She had tried everything to get me out of bed and back to life, but I resisted defiantly. All I wanted to do was sleep. When I slept, I wasn’t depressed about my life. I didn’t think about the fact that I was estranged from everybody who had ever meant something to me. And I didn’t surrender to the paralyzing fear that held me in its clutches, the fear that I would always be alone, and abandoned, and unlovable. When I slept, the world was a peaceful place. Every night, I slept hoping fervently that I would not wake up.

Ivie interrupted my thoughts. “Efosa, how do you feel today?”

“I am fine,” I gave her my standard response.

“Do you want me to help you out of bed?”

“No, thanks. I think I’ll just stay here.”

Ivie came into the apartment and returned the trashcan to its place in the kitchenette, and then sat on the sofa and tried to make conversation. I ignored her. I could tell she was scared for me. That was why she had insisted on staying on in Houston after I was discharged from the hospital a week ago. She watched me like the mother of a newborn child all day, making sure I didn’t do anything stupid. A part of me wished she would just go home, yet another part of me was terrified that she would.

“I made fresh fish pepper soup,” Ivie said, feigning a cheerfulness that neither of us felt.

“I’m not hungry,” I replied.

“Efosa laho, please, you haven’t eaten anything in days. Have a little soup please.”

“No, thanks Ivie,”

“Efosa, if you do not eat, I will tell the therapist this afternoon.”
 
I was in therapy three days a week. Two days ago my doctor had threatened to have me committed if I didn’t eat or take the drugs that had been prescribed for me. I sighed, resigned. “Okay, I will have some soup.” I dragged myself off the mattress. My legs almost caved at the effort that it took to walk the short distance to the sofa.

I don’t know why my eyes settled on that letter. It was sitting on top of the pile, and had been sent by express mail and was postmarked Lagos, Nigeria. “Who would write me a letter from Nigeria?” I mumbled.

“You got a letter from Nigeria?”
 
Ivie came into the room, carrying a bowl of steaming soup and a bottle of water.
 
“Open it,” she said excitedly.
 
She must have figured hearing from home would lift my spirit. I stared at the letter in my hands, trying to imagine who could have written to me. Even though I grew up in Nigeria, I had become out of touch with my friends and family.
 
“Efosa, oya open it.” Ivie repeated.
 
I tore open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet inside it. "Dear Efosa, I hope that this letter meets you in good health." I smiled wryly at the irony.

"I mean no offense in writing you this letter. I realize that I have no right to expect anything from you, but I am hoping after all these years, that you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

I started to feel uncomfortable. The ominous feeling grew stronger with every word I read – surely he wouldn’t, couldn’t, daren’t have the nerve to write to me. In panic mode, my eyes ran to the last line of the letter – the signature line. The look on my face when I saw the name of the writer must have alarmed Ivie. As she started towards me, I began to scream, and just as she reached me, I fell to the floor in a faint.