"You promised me!"

There's a screetch of breaks and someone somewhere screams melodramatically. The driver swears under his breath. The driver of another card, a navy ford focus, Neil, leans on his horn a little too vigorously and makes the three mile of traffic all curse in unison. In the distance, Ally and Sasha are in Sasha's sister's BMW convertible, top down, sunglasses, shorts and strappy tops in tow. They sing badly to a song coming over the radio. Ant, whose sitting in the car alongside them, gives them an approving nod and grin, to which they both giggle like school girls. They discuss how "fit" he is, although he can hear everything they're saying. He smiles again, half-amused, half-arrogant.

"What's happened? This is a joke," moans Denny, who's stuck miles back, talking to his brother Rick, a few dozen cars previous to him, over the phone."Dunno, looks like some sort of accident. Silly buggers were obviously too busy enjoying the heatwave to concentrate on the fucking road." Rick spits.
"Yeah well, they want to hurry about it, Cara's waiting for me."
Rick rolls his eyes at his elder brothers' seriousness. Denny and Cara are "seeing eachother" but really, they're super-serious, like ready-to-get-on-one-knee serious, and Rick can't think of anything funnier because "you're whipped mate, you want to show her who wears the jeans an' that."
"Its trousers, you twat."
"Whatever, you know what I mean."
"Yeah. Well. You know she gets snippy if she's got to wait a long time."
"You mean, she's the one with the dick.'"
"Fuck off will ya, I thought you wanted to know what had happened."
"I do, but winding you up is so fuckin' easy."
"You're just jealous. Got no one to toss you off. Your own hand doesn't count."
"Rick why do you have to be such a douche? Why can't you be happy for me?"
Rick laughs, sarcastically. A little too sarcastically. Denny loses his temper.
"Right, unless you know what's happening, piss off and stop bothering me." He hangs up the phone and tosses it onto the passenger seat. It bounces and hits the floor.
"Shit."

Denny takes his eyes off the road and begins to fumble about under the passenger seat for his phone. While he's doing so, the congestion starts to clear and the driver behind him leans on his horn. A familiar horn. Denny forgets his phone, unfastens his seat-belt and opens the car door with such fury and disdain that it just narrowly misses the car to his right. 

Thinking he's got one over on the impatient bastard behind him, he approaches the window and demands the man open the door.
The man, quite smugly, does what he's instructed.
"Yes...?" The man questions, staring down Denny profusely.
"What the fuck's your problem mate? Can you not wait a pissing second!" Denny becomes irate. The man's eyes glaze over for a second, before he gets all up in Denny's face and with gritted teeth spits "talk to me like that again and I swear, I'll have your nuts in a vice, got it?"
Denny blushes, steps back, nods and retreats to his car, feeling dejected and embarrassed. As he begins to drive on, dangerously slowly, mimicking that of the rest of the traffic, his phone hollers again from it's hiding place. He presses his hands-free set to answer, and greets the caller with apparent distaste.
"I thought I told you to stop pissing about and ring me when you had actual news?!"
"Excuse me! I think I have a right to know which skank you've blew me off for..."
It was Cara, and as usual, she was pissed. Both in attitude and physicality. Cara tended to have a few drinks with dinner, and breakfast, and days ending in a 'Y.'
"Shit, babe I'm sorry, I can explain..."
Just as Denny is about to explain about what he assumes is the hold-up a few miles along the motorway, the headset pips three times, to let him know he has another call.
"Hold on a sec, yeah?" He tells Cara, trying to calm her down, "I've got another call."
"Yeah?" He answers.
"Right, okay, well I've spoke to Ant and he says he reckons there was a crash a few yards past Middleton junction, so we might be back here a while, there's coppers and fire engines and everything..." Rick drones on, too fast for Denny to properly make out.
"Rick! You've got to be fucking kidding me?!"
"Right foul mouth you've got there Den."
"Stop pissing about! Do you know what's happened or not? I'll have to hurry, Cara's on the other line'
'She been knocking back the vino again?'
"Not funny. You know she's sensitive when people call her up about her drinking habits"
"Piss funny that is. Does she not realise that you put milk on cornflakes, not gin?"
Denny breathes into the line but doesn't say a word.
"You know I'm just messin' with ya"
"You're not though. That's the thing"
"Well, big deal, she drinks. So what"
"So what? You're not the one peeling her off the bathroom floor at 7 am before you need to shower for work. She's draining my bank account, its not even a joke anymore." Denny suddenly blurts all of this out over the receiver.
"Shit Denny, I never realised, I just thought she liked her drink."
"Yeah well, you never ask do you? You're just assuming its a good laugh."
"You're the one constantly defending her, not me"
"But this time I dunno whether I can, that's the thing."
"What do you mean?"
"She doesn't have three weeks paid holidays"
"Eh?"
"What I'm saying is, she doesn't have a job"
"Fuck, really?"
"Yeah." In a dead-pan tone, "apparently fucking your colleagues in the staff room after hours doesn't bade well. Especially when you're both wasted and high."
Rick doesn't say a word.
"She's been cheating on me, and that's not the worst bit..." Denny's voice breaks. "She's spent all my savings. I haven't got a penny."
"Shiiiiiit."
"Yeah, I'm screwed. I love her but she's fucked me over big-time y'know. We never said we were exclusive, but I don't know how the hell she got hold of my bank cards too."
"I'd be getting rid if I were you."
"How many times, I don't need your advice"
"Well why are you telling me this then?"
"Because..I.. Because I needed to tell someone. The fact its you is just, bad timing."
"You're telling me, you could've waited to tell me your relationship is breaking down coz your girlfriend's a whore when we were round the dinner table, or at least over a few pints."
They laugh in unison. There's nothing else they can do really. Their laughter is soon rudely interrupted, when Denny's phone pips again. Cara. 

"Fuck. This is her. Right, I'm going to have to tell her, I'm going to be late."
"Fair enough, good luck with that mate, don't envy you. In a bit, bye."
"yeah, see ya."

He presses the button on his hands-free device and it clicks over to Cara. Waiting. Impatiently.
"Sorry babe, had Rick on the other line. We're stuck in traffic. It's a fucking joke. Backed up for miles, I'll not make dinner."

Silence.
She didn't respond. Cara just breathed heavily down the line.

"Cara? Cara?! Stop pissing about will you, I'm trying to tell you, this is important."
"Is it now?" She droaned, tell-tale signs she was drunk.
Denny didn't even have the energy to humour her. 

"Cara, look. You need to stop this."
"What?"
"Everything. I know what you've been doing."
"So you want to control every move I make now, is that it?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."

"Just sober up before I get in, we need to talk. Properly."
"Denny, everything's all wet, it's like, I don't know. I think there's petrol or something all over the floor.."
"What are you on about?"
"Well, I was angry that you weren't back. I was going to prove I loved you."
"What? Cara, what the fuck are you talking about?!"
"When you were dodging my calls, I presumed you were with Kathy."
"Kathy? Babe, we've been over this. She's my best friend's girlfriend, why would I even-"
"So, I've had a long think about it and I think we should get married."
"Cara? How much have you had to drink?"

The headset pips again. Rick. 
A message appears on the dashboard.
"Cars are moving up here, probs won't be much longer for you. I'll stop by later. Rick'

"DENNNYYYY! Who the fuck are you talking to?!" 
She'd begun to get hysterical now. That was never good.

"CARA! Can you please sober up and I'll speak to you later, I'm driving! I've got to go. I can't do this now."
"Do what?! Oh god, no. You're planning on breaking up with me, aren't you? AREN'T YOU?!" Her screams were deafening. She was slurring her words, and hiccuping in between her yells. "I can't believe it. I'll do it you know. I won't hesitate!"
"Leave me, you'd be doing me a favour. You're a state! Can't you see what you're doing to yourself?!"

Cara didn't say another word, but she began to whimper down the phone. Denny had hit a nerve. She'd sober up and go to bed. 

"I'll see you soon, the traffic is clearing now. I shouldn't be that much longer."
Denny was trying to reassure his girlfriend, but it seemed impossible in her state.
"Okay, Cara. I've got to go. I'm hanging up, give me ten minutes. I'll put my foot down, when I get past this accident."
"NO! Don't leave me, Denny! I'm scared of what I'll do.."
Shit. Denny, hearing that, he slammed his breaks on. The car behind him quickly came to an abrupt halt. Another lean on the horn. A few more choice words. He turns, waves his hand to apologise, and tries to carry on driving.

"What do you mean, Cara....?"
"I can't let you leave me! I've got nowhere to go!"
She seemed to be swigging something. Probably wine. Denny's stomach somersaulted. 'I dread to think of the state of the house," he thought to himself.

"THAT'S IT. I'LL DO IT. I SWEAR. I'M NOT FUCKING ABOUT ANY MORE!"
"DO WHAT? CARA! You're not making any sense!"

Luckily, the traffic had cleared, and it was only a few minutes drive to Denny's house. 
"I'll be home in a second, just don't act stupid. Sit down. Make a coffee or something." 
Denny was used to having to talk down Cara. She was always up a height after a couple of bottles of wine. 
"No, I'm FINE. I'm FAN-BLOODY-TASTIC. I'LL WAIT. You're not getting out of it that easily."

Totally confused at Cara's drunken ramblings, Denny just mumbled something incoherent into the receiver and said he was nearly home. He turned right off the dual carriageway, left into the estate, and then right into their street. Cara was still on the line, but she wasn't speaking. She was, he presumed, in the kitchen. There was a lot of banging and clattering, but for Cara, that was nothing new. He pulled onto the driveway. Eventually home. A day from hell, and for what? What a fucking waste of time.

"See you in a second. I'm here."

Denny got out of the car, shut the door behind him, and locked it. He dreaded to think of the state that Cara was in. His head was pounding. He didn't have the energy. Maybe he'd just have to tell her. Straight away. It was over. It was finished. They were finished.

Opening the front door, he already wanted to fast-forward until she'd sobered up. A docile little girl, of only twenty three, turned into the most heartless bitch imaginable, when intoxicated. And there she was. Standing in the hallway. Dripping wet. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her clothes clung her to like they were drenched. Wait. What was that smell? Denny's eyes stung. There was something in the air. What was it? Apart from a sickeningly horrible feeling of regret?

"Why are you all wet? Let's get you cleaned up and put to bed."
"No. Stay back. I want nothing more to do with you. 
Instinct told Denny to step forward anyway, so he did. His phone rings again. Rick. Ignore. He can wait.

"NO!" Cara screamed. It took him by surprise. The noise that sprung from her lips was murderous, so shrill it gave him goosebumps. 
"I told you. I told you I'd do it," she kept saying. 

Denny's eyes soon became fixed on something in Cara's hand. A lighter. Shit.
"Cara, let's put the lighter down.."
"NO. YOU PROMISED! YOU PROMISED ME!"

And with that, she held it up to her hair, clicked it twice, and let the flames engulf her. The whole house was dowsed in petrol, and Denny's eyes couldn't believe how fast everything went up. She stood there, fascinated by the flames charring the wallpaper around her. She began to laugh. The alcohol was acting as a temporary anesthetic  She laughed, heartily, such an evil, wicked laugh. And Denny just looked on, in horror, as the flames and the smoke devoured everything, in front of his eyes. 

I'm gonna keep on loving you.

It's 4am and I'm standing on the corner of a dark street in the pouring rain. Soaked through. Shivering. My dress is ruined. My heels that were once so comfortably slung on my feet are now juggled in one hand. In the other, I hold my bag, with nothing in except my lipstick and copper. Not enough money for a taxi home. My friends have gone seperate ways, and drunk little me decided to wander off. Returning to the scene of the crime, my friends all text saying they'd gone home or to flats or parties or other bars. You were my first choice and my last resort. Dialling your number, I was shivering and pleading that you'd answer. You didn't. So with cut feet, light-headed and absolutely dripping wet, I stumbled to your flat. I leaned on the buzzer. No answer. I fell onto the steps, and got shelter underneath the overhead roofing. I buzzed again. This time, chucking my shoes to the curb and trying to keep moving, from one foot to the other, in a poor attempt to keep warm. It isn't working. The rain begins to pour, and I sit down. Surrounded by puddles, that are getting increasingly deeper as the minutes pass. Just when I think I'll try my friends again, there's a sound. Something that makes me look up, stop studying my filthy, sore feet, and acknowledge that there's a presence behind me. 

Just when I thought I didn't matter, just when I was about to walk away. You open the door, half-dressed, barely awake, and looking fairly confused, you pick me up, and help me inside. My eyes are heavy, I'm dripping wet and my make up is working its way down my face along with an undesirable amount of rain water. The next thing I know, I wake up on your sofa. I'm wearing one of your old t-shirts and a pair of tracksuit bottoms that are three sizes too big, and make my legs look like they've ballooned over night. 
You greet me in the most perfect way imaginable,
"Morning beautiful."
and there's a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of me.
"Thank you," I mouth, as I slowly sit up and my eyes get reacquainted with my surroundings. I catch your gaze. You look at me, like I'm worth a million dollars. Even if I am in your old clothes and my feet are filthy, and my hair is lank and sticking to my head. A smile from you, and last night's disaster fades away, like the stain of breath upon a mirror. 

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.

I want to be a real-life Carrie Bradshaw meets Bridget Jones. With a bank balance like J.K. Rowling's, a fan-base like John Green and the infamy of Oscar Wilde. That's probably ambitious, but who cares? Maybe I'll get lucky.

Gushing over Gatsby.

I've waited for over a year and a half, with baited breath and permanently crossed fingers, for this moment. The release of Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby. I had very high hopes for such a wonderful film adaptation, and I must say, disappointed, I most definitely was not. Luhrmann's style is evidently echoed in this epic love story, taking place during the Roaring Twenties in America. Full of wacky, powerful and unbelievably-realistic characters, deep, profound speeches and one or two hilarious little quips. Fitzgerald's classic novel is held with such high regard, I was worried that Luhrmann's take on it would be a complete flop. But, luckily, to my utmost delight, it was fabulous. Everything. From head-to-toe, down-right, dripping in brilliance. Every shot, every carefully selected piece of scenery, the exquisite costume design, the astounding imagery, every breath a character uttered. It was perfect.

I didn't think it was possible to have a film that so closely echoed the real novel, especially after the 60's Robert Redford film version, which was, admittedly, quite cleverly done, especially for the time. But, as you all have guessed, Leonardo DiCaprio has done it again. The decision to cast him as the inglorious, hopeful, gorgeous Jay Gatsby, was a faultless one. And his pairing with star-crossed lover, Daisy, a stunning, hugely-talented Carey Mulligan, was, in my opinion, pure genius. She was everything Daisy ever was, from the sheer brilliance of her lifestyle, to the matter-of-fact outlook she has on life, Carey was astounding. This may be partly because, after seeing the first film, I picked faults with Mia Farrow's Daisy, being too whiney and unable to convey anything much other than a fairly forced disappointed facial expression, and one or two dramatic head-titled poses. However, Carey, who I sincerely love, (check her out, in some of her other work; An Education, Never Let Me Go.) was on top form, yet again. Her ability to maintain in character, is wonderful, and throughout the film, I was spellbound by her.

So, Leo and Carey deserve an Oscar, what about the rest of the cast? Well, I'm thoroughly impressed at whoever decided to cast the rest. I was nervous when it was revealed that Elizabeth Debicki would play my favourite girl, a serial-cheat, a sly witty, typical woman of the time, Jordan Baker. The one with the best lines, the clever sarcastic tone and very obviously, the flapper look. There aren't enough words to describe how good Debicki played Jordan, it's everything I ever wanted her to be, as well as so much more. I've never thought someone could be so well modelled on a literary character, than Elizabeth Debicki as Jordan Baker. A role she was born to play. A major applause for Joel Edgerton, forever the man you could not keep your eyes off. Tom Buchanan, the bully, the animal, the maddening sleaze-bag. Joel, I'll say it only once, you were great. Now, if I was worried about the rest of the casting, who would be our so-called, omniscient narrator, Nick Carraway. The character whose emotions we all share, the anguish, the delight, the mere flirtations, being overcome with such a fantastical lifestyle, with its glam parties, extravagant lights and a very slight hint of the essential debauchery of the 20's. The one person we are always with. Our Nicky was played by the wonderful Tobey Maguire. Everybody's favourite. The one who begins and ends on such a paradoxically different note, it's hard to process if you haven't already read Fitzgerald's classic. A summer to change your life. The sort-of-welcome of Meyer Wolfshiem (Amitabh Bachchan) and George (Jason Clarke) and Myrtle Wilson (Isla Fisher), and this film can conquer the world.

A novel that combines and breaks every social barrier known to man. The morals went out of the window as soon as the Roaring Twenties hit. The parties were better, the liquor was cheaper, and most of all, an infamous Jay Gatsby was richer and more illusive than ever. I honestly believe, hand-on-heart, that Luhrmann's production is, wait for it, a masterpiece. An Oscar waiting to happen. I don't think Fitzgerald could've done it better himself. He, I hope, would be as proud as the millions of fans sitting awe-fully in his wake. Costume was mesmerising, the scenery was out of this world, and the characters, were indescribable (although I've tried!) Even down to Isla Fisher's part, a girl who is usually known for quippy little Rom-Com's, with happy endings that leave no threads untied, so she really has done well to get her hands on the role of the devilish, voluptuous Myrtle.

As the credits began to roll, the silence was deafening. The atmosphere could've been cut with a knife. The room was split. Those who knew the ending, and those who didn't. A very sparse few had dry eyes. And in 2013, it suddenly all made sense. We all understood. As the credits continued and the lights came back on, the facial expressions were tell-tale signs. Appreciation. Enlightenment. And most of all, envy. In an age where we party too hard, love to look glam, and will devour someone's arm off to catch a piece of juicy gossip, The Great Gatsby made us think, unanimously, we were born 70 years too late.

Texts that changed my life.

I've actually just realised that for a Literature student, I don't blog an awful lot about novels/books/scripts/plays, and I think I probably should, considering that some of my major influences are writers, novelists and authors. There isn't a feeling like it, opening a new book, carefully folding it's spine as not to damage it's insides, and revealing something spectacular. Ever read something that you believe changed your life? I have. I'm always reading things I think change me, for the best or the worst, but still affect me. I truly believe that a book that doesn't change or affect you in some way, isn't worth reading. There's only a handful of books I've ever started to read, and suddenly put down, thrown to the other side of the room, and not finished, ever. Not that these books weren't good pieces of literature in their own right, because of course they probably were, it's just, to me, they weren't what I look for in a book. I look for escapism, the ability to become so enthralled in a novel, that everything else goes out of focus. You can't think about anything else, you can't sleep or function until you find out what the pages are going to reveal. 

So, what are my favourite books you may wonder? I have quite a few, for obvious different reasons. I really do not have a genre I lean towards, well, not usually. I'm a bit of a sucker for a romance, but it has to be deep, capturing every one of your senses, nothing superficial or dull or overly lovey-dovey. I also tend to read what most people would consider very strange books. Anything with a weird storyline, something different, unusual, uncanny (to quote my supposed reading material for uni.) If someone asks me what my favourite book is, I tend to become cagey and weird. It's like I'm giving up a part of my soul, as some people will hear a title and either roll their eyes or begin gushing, and that may be fine, in one sense, but I don't like it. I don't like the fact that there are already made assumptions behind the identity of a novel or a particular writer. The judgements that no text can ever fully escape. Despite this, when I tell someone the names of my favourite novels, I want to grab them by their wrist before they have chance to walk away, and explain my reasons behind my choices. Slightly OCD, probably, but at least someone walks away knowing that I love a book for one particular quote, or a characters' identity, or the full circle of the narrative.

Let's reveal all. My ultimate favourites are as follows. Of course, F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby is probably one of the few novels I could read a million times and not get sick of it. It's 1920's glam lifestyle, wrapped in debauchery, riches and extravagance, including a very messy love triangle over a decade, some very questionable morals and a true, and perhaps, tainted, insight into what Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald's life was really like. The bright lights, the prohibition and the scarily-real underworld in the Roaring Twenties in America. Also, a must read for anyone and everyone. A novel to change your life. Discard any former judgements you have around J.K Rowling, all the stereotypical bullshit surrounding her ability to "only write for children" because, in fact, she may have been cleverly hiding behind such a persona for years. The release of her first adult novel, The Casual Vacancy, specifically intended for an older readership, excited me probably more than it should have. I was very intrigued to see how daring and bloody and brilliant this woman was, when it came to writing gritty novels. I won't include a horrific amount of spoilers, because I always kind of hate that, I'll just say, Ms Rowling did not disappoint. A book I bought on my Dad's kindle, and literally didn't leave my room until I'd finished every single page of it. It's blindingly wrapped in deception, but it's so painfully true it kind of broke my heart. A novel not for anyone looking for a sequel to the Harry Potter phase, because, I cannot stress enough, this book is certainly NOT for children. It's an eye-opener, so pick it up. 

Thirdly, another very different novel. Sarra Manning's Unsticky. A girly book if there ever was such a thing. A fabulously apt-named novel, probably aimed at adults, but I think I read it first when I was about 16. One young woman's journey from a job she hates to one she never ever thought she'd do, for reasons that become very obviously clear as you read on. A hilariously funny, heart-wrenching, sexy, brilliant novel, by a writer I have so much admiration for. Her best work, in my eyes. Girls, this is a definite one for you. Fourth would be a masterpiece, by the very well-known John Green. Actually sod it, it's two-in-one. You all need to read these. They are so different, yet have some tell-tale Green traits in them, secretly, buried in their crisp pages, strong topics and powerful characters. Between Looking for Alaska and The Fault In Our Stars (frequently stylized as TFIOS) I think I cried enough tears to put my house under water. Full of real emotion, with some brilliant characters and very carefully structured narratives. If you love a good cry, pick one (or both) of these up at your nearest Waterstones. Immediately.

Some other brilliant reads, are as follows;

Kevin Brooks' Candy and Black Rabbit Summer. Very gritty, very real, very very Brooks' style.

Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk about Kevin. Witty, pure brilliance meets pure evil. Life-changing. My A-level Literature teacher introduced me to this, and I was even allowed to abandon my coursework to finish it!

Sarah Dessen's Just Listen. Echoing the importance of love, life and sticking together like glue. Fabulous.

David Nicholls' One Day. The film was good, but the novel is the most wonderful thing ever. Em and Dex!

Richard Yates' Revolutionary Road. Classic. Passionate. Violent. Everything you could ever want. Wow.

Bram Stoker's Dracula. A novel I have just recently read for my Uni course, and to my surprise, was one of the wittiest, well-thought out book I've ever had the pleasure of feasting my eyes on. Slash your first impressions, it's an awful lot more than an eerie version of the Twilight series. It's deep stuff. (Check out my fave, Van Helsing!)

Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? One of the first plays I'd ever read, and was not disappointed. Albee's most famous and most recognised work in his entire life. Wonderfully hilarious, the fun and games hide a thousand dirty secrets, and some fabulous one-liners. One to make you cry with laughter. Also, I never say this, but the film starring Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor is epic. A piece of theatre that you'd think was wrote with Richard and Elizabeth in mind. It's their tumultuous relationship on paper.

Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest- a piece of theatre I loved from the moment I set eyes on it. The witty title, the overly extravagant characters, the exquisitely brilliant dialogue. You couldn't ever ask for more from a play. Wilde at his most hilarious and most astounding.

So, these are a few of my major inspirations.

What are yours? I'd really love to know. Any recommendations are obviously welcome.

Now, I really have to go and get ready. I'm off to see, (I can't believe I'm saying this!) finally! The Great Gatsby. Cue lots of grins, and even more tears. 

FLAPPER DRESSES AT THE READY.

A shot of caffeine and you can conquer the world.

As fancy as you try to say it, no matter whether you use an Italian tongue or an English twang, Black coffee is, and always will be, black coffee. My saviour, my ultimate pleasure, my serious obsession. I'm a coffee junkie. A 19-year-old caffeine junkie. Self-confessed, and proud as punch. I drink a serious amount of it, and rely on it to get me through difficult times, early mornings and later nights. A hangover kick, an early morning wake-up and the greatest refreshment in the world.

The man in my local Starbucks knows my name and exactly what I want as he sees me push open the door. A smile, slightly funny, and a recognised nod, and my thick, black, strong coffee is placed delicately in front of me. It opens me up to a myriad of possibilities. A coffee in tow, and I'm capable of anything. I feel accomplished, prepared, ready to face whatever the day may throw my way; good, bad or down-right horrendous.

This is a particularly suitable post today, after seven cups of industrial strength coffee, I still don't feel prepared to revise like hell for Monday. D-Day is approaching at a somewhat dangerous speed, and I'm not at all ready for what that might mean. I've done countless Literature exams, but I guess at degree level, it matters the most. Don't get me wrong, my course is everything I could want it to be, as well as a whole lot more, with a group of wonderful people, especially a little mention for my favourite girlies- Laura, Sarah and Jenny (who will probably be reading, hey girls!) who are just brilliant and hilarious, and the only kind of people you'd want to spend 9am lectures with and not want to commit a horrific kind of crime. The revision, however, never gets easier. Baracading my bedroom door, hiding my phone and arming myself with a heap of Literature-related quotations to memorize  I think I'm overestimating how much my brain can take in, but I'll try my damnest to pass this bloody exam. It will all be worth it, the late nights, the hard graft and the aching wrists, for the end results, and sooner, the mental celebrations that will occur Monday night, when we can jump up and down, scream and shout and discuss how the hell we managed to get through Year One.

So, for everyone who tolerates my bad moods around exam time, motivates me and believes in everything I can do, I love you all. A very special person always tells me I can achieve anything I set my mind to. Every time I'm about to sit an exam, I receive a text message from my grandma, simply saying:

"you can do it, Duffy Moon!"

It means more than I can ever say.

"How do you live with a ghost?"

"I'm fine."
"Tom, we know that isn't true."
"You don't. You don't know anything about me"
"I know you're not coping."
"Who said I wasn't coping?"

The stupid snotty-looking bitch in front of me was watching me closely. I didn't like it. I felt like I was a mental patient with handcuffs cutting into my wrists or something. Like she didn't trust that I wouldn't flip out and throw myself out of the window, head first.

"Why can't you just leave me alone?"
"We don't think that's in your best interest."
"What the fuck do you know? You don't have a fucking clue what's best for me!"
"Thomas, can you please try not to swear.."
"I'll swear all I fucking want. You're winding me up!"
"Its not intentional."

"You must just be a natural then." I retorted sarcastically. Karen, my so-called guidance counsellor, was the most infuriating woman I'd ever met. She was treating me like a child. Why am I having to listen to this?
"I'm twenty-nine for god sakes. I don't need baby-sitting."
"That's not what this is."
"Isn't it?"
"No. It's a healing process."

At that moment, I couldn't take it any longer. I burst out laughing. I realise now that it was inappropriate, but my balance was all off. I laughed and laughed and laughed some more. I laughed until my stomach cramped and my eyes were streaming with tears and my face was scarlet. Eventually, Karen interrupted me, mid-hysterical outburst, by placing a cup of black coffee, closely resembling treacle, on the table in front of me, carefully on a coaster. It had some seaside town scrawled round the edges of it. It was all blues and greens and yellows, well, from what I could see around the bottom rim of the cup. Saying nothing, I reached over and moved the cup from beside her knees to where I was slouching on the chair. Minus the coaster. Karen's eyes darted to the coffee stain the cup was making on her expensive-looking table. I smirked. Now who was watching who closely?

"Can you, er, I mean, would you mind just-"
"What?" 
Seeming oblivious. I got a really morbid sense of satisfaction watching her squirm.

"Well, I'd like you to use a coaster."
"I'm sorry. You'd LIKE me to use a coaster?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'd LIKE you to discharge me. But that's not going to happen is it?"

She ignored me, and reached to move the coaster to its rightful place, snuggled under the cup, but I grabbed it first, tormenting her.

"What's the matter, Karen? Are you stressed? Well! Are you? Are you finding this difficult? Hard to handle? Why do you think that is? Do you think you're suffering from mental health issues? 'Cause you want the fucking coaster moved? Slightly OCD if you ask me."
"I didn't though."
"Didn't what?"
"Ask you. I never asked your opinion. All I said was MOVE THE FUCKING COASTER!"

She broke. I watched it. There and then. The screaming and shouting and swearing turned the pair of us into a pair of snivelling teenagers. I broke down, watching her struggle. Evidently, I'd hit a nerve. I admired her really. I shouldn't have been treating her like shit. It wasn't fair.

"I'm.. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have."
"Don't worry about it. I'm the one who's supposed to keep a professional distance."
"Yeah, well. I'm still sorry."

She was silent a moment, using the sleeve of her wooly cardigan to mop up her tears, before she spoke.

"Thomas, you do realise this isn't a punishment don't you?"
I nodded, because I kind of suddenly got the point of it all.
"Good, because its supposed to be helping. I know how you're feeling."
"No you don't." I snapped. "You don't have a clue. How can you possibly understand how I'm feeling?!"
"I understand more than you'll ever know."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" I practically spat at her.

She paused. Hesitated. Before carrying on. I guess that's why they call them shrinks. They know what they're supposed to say. They tell you what you need to hear, not what you want to hear. She picked up a photo frame from beside her desk, and showed it to me. A girl, pretty, about nineteen, blonde, natural make up. Smiling. Drop-dead gorgeous. But I didn't say that. I just smiled.

"Who's that?"
"Megan."
"Is she your daughter?"
"Yes, she was."
"Shit." 

That was the key word there. Was. Meaning, past. Gone. Lost. I'd been so heavily concentrated on the fact I'd lost Kassie that I'd forgot about everyone else. I never imagined, I never even stopped to think that my own bloody shrink might be grieving too.
Eventually she spoke. 

"It'll be her two year anniversary next tuesday."
"I'm sorry. How did it, I mean, did she.."
"Its okay, you can ask. I'm used to people asking. Its just a bit weird having the shoe on the other foot, I suppose. I'm the one with the questions, not the answers, usually. She had cancer, she fought until the end, but..but it was too much for her."
"God, I'm, I'm so sorry. Really." Perhaps the first honest thing I'd ever breathed.
"Yeah."
"I had no idea."
"Why would you?"

I shrugged. I realised. It all made sense.

"I clean because that's all I can do right. Well, this and my job. Or that used to be the case. Megan's death tore my family apart. I blamed my husband and he couldn't cope. It was unfair of me to ask him to cope alone. How on earth could he bare the guilt of something like that? I forced myself into work, into helping other people, while he was at home, pickling his liver and slowly fading away. Six months after she died, I found my husband in the garden. He'd put his rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I...I."

She began to get choked up. I reached over, and put my arm on her shoulder. Our eyes met. She nodded. We were interrupted by the alarm sounding on her desk.

"Ah, I guess that's time up. Same time next week?"
"Oh. Actually Karen, I've got a better idea."

So, seven days later, at 3pm, I found myself sitting having coffee with Karen. Off-record. In a snug little cafe on the other side of town. We agreed that any sort of professionalism had been already breached, so we might as well meet properly and talk things through.

Karen looked uncomfortable. She was shuffling about in her seat. I was wearing a sort-of-smile, and it was strange. I hadn't smiled since Kassie died. I felt like I was cheating on her. It was wrong. I felt guilty, for expressing any kind of happy emotion when she was no longer around. Especially when I truly felt I couldn't be happy without her.

"I'm sorry, this is kind of weird for me."
"I bet. Its not really easy for me either."

We spent a good couple of hours, sitting and talking. Deeply talking. Karen told me all about her daughter, Megan, and how she died, and what she felt, and how hard it was, practically going through it alone. After all, living with a ticking time-bomb must be hard. Living with two, must be excruciating. I don't know what hurt her more, losing Megan or grieving for her cowardly husband. She was pretty cut up. I'd never ever noticed how sad she looked. For a woman of around 50, she looked ancient. Worn. Exhausted. Behind her eyes, a thousand What Ifs and Maybes. Hundreds of choked back tears. Thoroughly through with life, yet something was keeping her hanging on. Her job. Her ability to help others gave her a reason to get up in the morning. I found that kind of incredible. After Kassie died, I didn't get out of bed for three weeks. I'd never spoke to anyone about it, except Karen. And now, here, in this fancy, cosy, little coffee shop, I was about to, hopefully, get what I needed. 
Finally, closure.
So, I'd better give it my best shot.

Karen sat patiently, with fresh coffees in front of us, and this time, there was no diary. No note-taking. No tape recorder, ready to be shipped to Dr such and such, to assess my "mental anguish." No weird, clinical analysis of my well-being. Just someone looking back at me, with genuine concern. A friend. Someone I needed. Someone with time for me.

"The day I lost Kassie was the worst day of my life to date, and hopefully always will be. I can't go through that again. Kassie was beautiful. Not just to me. You know what I mean. The kind of girl who always had strangers stopping her in the street complimenting her. Her brunette hair matched her eyes, and she had a smile that could knock you off your feet. I felt like the luckiest guy in the world, with her on my arm. We'd been together for six years, and I'd cherished every single second. So, the day I got a call saying my wife had been in an accident, I was physically sick, before pulling myself together, and inquiring as to what had happened, and which hospital I should break the speed limit when driving to. St. Peter's hospital. An awful place I can't even bare to think about now. Kassie was in a car accident that morning. We never truly found out what happened. Partly because I was too stricken with grief to pin the blame on anyone. All that mattered to me was that my Kassie was no longer with me. She'd kissed me that morning, before leaving the house for work, and I'd never thought anything more of it. I mean, why would I? It was the worst phone call I ever received. My heart broke that day. My girl was always a fighter, but I guess it was just too much for her. She didn't know her family, they'd drifted apart years before we met, and as for mine, they were hundreds of miles away, and never knew her like I did, so when it happened, I didn't want to turn to them. I became irrational and selfish and began drinking and not sleeping. Then I began sleeping and not eating. Starving myself. Not looking after myself. Not leaving my bed. Not leaving my house. Not picking up my phone, opening my post or anything. I couldn't function. I didn't want to be without her. I couldn't and wouldn't, imagine my life without her. The love of my life. My soul-mate. My best friend."

It wasn't until one day, there was a knock at my door. A woman, fifties, greying hair, with a clipboard and a professional looking pair of glasses in tow. She enquired as to my health, physical and mental. And told me she was from the NHS, sent to check on me after my recent bereavement. I slammed the door in her face. 

Fourty five minutes later, she knocked again. And somehow, persuaded me to see her for an appointment. I did. Unwillingly though. I only really did it because she was the only person who made the effort, in spite of how much I pushed them away. She came back. Funnily enough for me, because I didn't know her and she didn't have any reason to want to go out of her way to help me. But she did. And after my breakdown in her office, I finally let it all go. We talked and talked until my throat was sore and dry, my cheeks were stained with tears and the smell of coffee was slightly intoxicating.

"So Karen. That's it. That's everything. I've just got one more question.."
"Yes?"
"How do you live with a ghost?"
She shook her head, clueless.
"I have absolutely no idea. I'm living with two. They're always with me. But they keep the house tidy, at least."

I laughed, and so did she. We laughed until we were in pain. And we smiled. Releasing, comforting smiles. Reassuring one another that no matter what came our way, we'd cope.