Maybe.

With a spring in your step and a smile plastered on your face, you brave the winter air. Maybe it's been a hard week, but it's Friday morning now, it's almost over. Maybe you need it to be over. That's fine. It's been difficult. At times, it's been too much to handle. You've wrung your hands and cried so much your muscles are exhausted. Maybe you've left a partner, lost a friend, a job, or a relative. Maybe you've failed your driving test, or an exam, or maybe you didn't get the job. Maybe you crashed your car, or broke a bone, or didn't get the result you were hoping for. Maybe you spent the week in bed with flu. Maybe you got bad news, or know someone who did. Maybe the baliffs are at the door, or the heating's on the blink, or the bills are too much to pay. Maybe someone's stole your credit card, or your house keys, or your dog. Maybe you left your phone on the kitchen table and missed that vital phone call. Maybe your bus broke down and you missed an opportunity. Maybe you laddered your tights and ran into an ex. Maybe you got lost. Maybe you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Everyone has bad days, but they always end. Look at it this way, everyone has good days too. 

Welcome to Hell.

A man in the corner of the room grins devilishly as I enter. There's something eerie about him. And this place. It's really hot, but the heat is uncomfortable rather than welcoming. It's not cosy, it's excruciating. It's like being locked in a sauna when all you want is cold, fresh air. Impossible. The man studies me hard as I walk towards the bar and order a double whiskey. As the barman produces my change, I steal a glance at the man to my left. He's watching me. Waiting for something, perhaps. I shrug it off, and walk over to an empty table in the opposite direction. I sit down with my drink in front of me and pull a book out of my handbag. Turning the pages, I can feel his eyes studying me hard. I attempt to ignore it. My eyes gloss over the first sentence of my new chapter, when my reading is interrupted noisily. Someone behind the bar rings a bell.

I look up, to hear the confirmation, but instead, there's someone in front of me. The man. His fierce, glinting eyes focused on mine. The devilish grin creeps slowly across his face once more, as he raises his eyebrows, and whispers, 

"Last orders."

My chest tightens, unnerved. He lets out a monstrous sort of laugh. I blink hard. And he's gone. Just like that. But I can still hear it. The perverse cackling drifting into my eardrums. 

Inside my head.

Long days and longer nights. Sleepy eyes and half-hearted smiles to keep you warm when inwardly, that grin has you glowing. Absence and unity, through a slight touch. That's all it takes. It's electric. Your heart skips three beats instead of one. Your breath isn't ever fully caught around them. You bite your lip, you stifle your laughter for it to burst out when you least expect it and frightens both of you. Every touch and you jump, flinch, draw back, just for a second. It tickles, and yet, it's a wonderful feeling. Catching a gaze, a raised brow, a slight movement and something beneath your ribcage begins to react like you can't even imagine. Someone who makes you happier by just breathing near you, being an arm's length away. Someone to shout at, laugh with and be yourself around. The one person who expects not one, but one hundred drunk texts from you. Every. Single. Weekend.

This is for you, and the ego you claim not to possess. It's mad to me, that notion.  You are entwined with my brainwaves and my body clock. I check my phone for your name every five seconds or three minutes, or every time I wake up. You shouldn't just have an ego, you should have the biggest ego in the world. Or at least, I know you would if you could see inside my head, (as much as you really do get inside my head.) The best thing to ever happen to me, even if now, I find myself trailing off mid-sentence to think about you or something. This doesn't count, evidently. I'm comfortable around you, in a way I've never ever been with anyone. So, I guess you should feel pretty fucking special about that. Where's your ego Lukas? Well, it's hiding in my dark, twisted little mind as far as I'm concerned. A little place reserved for you. My happy place. (yes, my inner Pheebs is calling out, AGAIN.) 

I'm blank when you feel low or are all spent with confidence, because, I don't see you like that. If only you could see yourself through my eyes, I think it'd work wonders. I can't even put it into intelligible words or sentences, because frankly, you fuck with my head (in the best, most intense way possible) so sometimes, yeah, I can't string a thought together. I love that. Honestly, truthfully, undoubtedly, this is the happiest I've ever been. So, those doubts, well, hide them away, or shout them from the rooftops, but they're your own criticisms, not mine, and there's absolutely no need for them. You're none of those things in my eyes; you're my rock and my ego, so fair is fair- I guess I should be at least partly responsible for yours. I can work on that. ;)

Hello Ego. Welcome to my world. You'll fit right in. Trust me.

x

Dipping your toes in.

The way to my heart is through the neck of a vodka bottle, the gap between the front door and the local pub, my lips and a cup of black coffee at 6 in the morning, the soles of my shoes and the northern concrete, the space between me and you, the time difference between Newcastle and New York City, the thud of our heartbeats and the next touch of skin on skin. The feel of a fresh, crisp twenty in my hands, hot cookies, the smell of real leather on my shoulders and around my ankles, perfume that makes you remember something distant, the instant photos taken in a drunken haze, the screamed words and bitter slurs. The sticky mark left on the bar when the tequila runs dry, the murky puddle when the sun isn't quite out, the cold cup of coffee, the downpours, the black eyeliner and burgundy lipstick, the expensive dress only worn once, the paper shopping bags that are overfilled, the six inch heels that hardly ever see daylight, the bitten down nails, the karaoke music, the cheesy grins and the psychotic rages. The hearty laughter, the constant Friends repeats, the silly cravings and the mental notes, the feeling when you open a new book and the spine cracks a little. OCD tendencies, memorable quotes and sitting on curbs having tipsy conversations. The first breath you take when you're waking up and become aware of it, the summery daze drinking pints in beer gardens, the last words in your favourite song, the first time you meet someone, and the last time you feel alone. 

Happy days: #2

Sunny days when you've got nothing to do but take advantage of the good weather. Taking too many photos just so you can document your silly nights out (or piece them back together the morning after.) Having someone you genuinely could tell anything and everything to, and not worry. Being so comfortable with where your life is going that you have a chance to breathe, (oh and potentially book a holiday, yay.) Anticipating summer 2014 to be the best yet. Grinning so much your cheeks ache and your jaw begins to seize up. Laughing so much that your stomach muscles feel like you've done three hours at the gym. Counting your blessings every single day that you have the most incredible people in your life, and they're happy to be there. 

Notions.

She knew before she ever even said the words, wrote it down or repeated it to another person. Probably before she even acknowledged it to herself. A look. An exchange of words. She had feelings for him long before he admitted his, or brushed her cheek or held her hand. Before the words fell from her bottom lip and hung in the air, clinging on to some forced, grasped sense of meaning. It felt right, it felt comfortable, it felt like it could potentially be everything she ever wanted. 

Unauthorised absence.

Well, I've been AWOL for eleven whole days, so I think I've got some explaining, or at least writing, to do. So, where have I been? What have I achieved in that week and a bit I haven't been blogging for? 

Sorry to disappoint, but not a lot. It's like the last eleven days are one surreal blur just leaving me with fragmented memories of smiles, laughter and laziness. So, it's February now, and it's threatening to snow up north, yes we do exist, even though we may not be under water like our capital. I've spent my weekends, as usual, out drinking, making new friends and reigniting others. In absolute honesty, nothing life-changing has happened in my absence. I'm increasingly burried in a stack of uni work that keeps mounting, and I keep actively ignoring in a desperate bid for it to disappear. Unlucky for me, I'm falling behind. I've felt rubbish for a few days, totally run down, and yet again, my immune system refused to pick up the slack once more after another weekend of bingeing, eating and staying up too late, hence why I spent the remainder of the weekend tucked up in bed, doped up, feeling utterly sorry for my miserable self. 

Recovering now, I'm greeted unwelcomingly with looming uni deadlines. Anyone who underestimates second year's difficulties, like me, will be sadly mistaken when it rears it's ugly head. Part of me feels like I'm stifled, it's like I can't breathe. I have too much reading to do, too much writing to delay, and too much sleep to catch up on. So, as well as this, I have something else that conjures up a feeling of dread deep inside my chest. I have six days left to settle on my module options for third year. I'm very indecisive anyway, but this is like torture. I kind of feel like I'm writing my own death warrant, carving out my own failure or something. It's important, and yet, there's no telling what will happen. Maybe I can hide from reality for one more day at least? Yes, that sounds very tempting. 

It's all over.

Well, this is it. We're officially waving a fond, nostalgic little farewell to Christmas 2013 and yet, are stuck in the limbo that is the six days between it and the new year. A new era. A new start, full of fresh prospects and opportunities. January sales. Also, January spells end. No more christmas tree, fairy lights, or gift-wrap. No more drinking cava at 3 in the afternoon because "it's Christmas!" The tins of celebrations only have the bounty's left, the weather goes from bad to worse, and getting out of bed for work, school or uni becomes almost too much to handle. It's grim. It's out with the seasonal stuff and in with the real-life. Full-force back to sensible. For me, it seems like I've been partying and lazing around since about May. Exams ended, along with uni, and summer was full of parties and long lie-ins, light nights and suntans. As autumn arrived, we held onto the memory of summertime with an intense sort of nostalgia. The hottest summer we'd had in years. It seemed so bittersweet, so unfair, that now it had all been snatched from our grasp so viciously. Autumn turned to winter, December arrived and received a mixed reception. Panic-buying was at it's highest. And then the dreaded day. The one day everyone is left wondering what to do. Today is 27th December. The day after Boxing Day. Sales are in full-swing, families are back in their own beds and the January blues are peeking over the horizon. I'm deciding to take it all with a pinch of salt and an overly-enthusiastic smile. Let's get optimistic people. 

She said.

She said she'd never get upset because of him again. She said she'd spent her tears a while ago, and she couldn't cry any more. She wouldn't let herself hurt like this, because it was so damn exhausting. But as Allie found herself curled up in a ball, wrapped tightly in her duvet, biting back those all so familiar bitter tears, her heart just sank. A kind of sinking that made her feel like she'd never be happy again, she'd never smile or laugh or have fun and genuinely mean it. There would always be a niggling in the back of her mind. That thing. Remembering the way she felt and how stupid she'd been. It had been okay. A tough few weeks, but she'd made it through. She picked herself up even when she never thought she would be able to. After crumbling, after everyone around her asking "are you okay?" Eventually, obviously, she caved. 

"No," she said, shaking her head a bit too vigourously, as to not show her teary eyes, "no, I'm not okay." Words she had bitten back so many times before events came flooding out, and with them, a sigh of relief. She had been brave enough to admit she was wrong, and even to be honest about it all. The strong one, as she was known, wasn't meant to crumble under all of this upset, but she did. She sure as hell frightened a few people when she did it too. Faces of friends were a picture. All staring open-mouthed, as if what was happening in front of them seemed to disrupt their entire belief system. Maybe it did, she didn't know. So, she'd done all that. The hateful rage, the resentment, the harsh tears, the sleepless nights, the stress, the anguish, and came out of the other side, smiling and laughing and displaying genuine signs of happiness. How was she to know that it was all just too good to be true? It was only a temporary ceasefire. The smile of hers would soon fade. So soon. So out of the blue. 

He was there, the one night she just needed a break from everything. The one relaxing night she'd allowed herself in months, and he just happened to show up, unannounced. A smug look on his face, as if he was totally oblivious. He couldn't be. He wasn't blind to the trouble he had caused, and even if he chose to believe that, the elephant in the room was ever-expanding. Awkward glances were exchanged, people shuffled around uncomfortably, a tell-tale sign that they knew too. This wasn't supposed to be like this, they weren't supposed to see each other like this. There was nothing clean cut about it. Nothing at all. It was painfully awkward. Her smile faded into a crumpled sort of expression she tried so hard to fight back and failed to do so miserably. It was obvious. She spent the next few hours hovering around slowly, avoiding his gaze, trying not to get upset, annoyed or pissed off, when of course she was all three. 

"It's not fair, you being here," she thought to herself. "It's not fair that as soon as I'm okay again, you somehow walk back on the scene and expect me to be okay with it? I'm not okay with it! I'm less than okay with it, I'm not even sure I know how to cope with it." 

Her mouth went dry, her cheeks a crimson shade of embarrassment and humiliation. She had never felt so small, so meaningless, as she had been made to feel just then. She fought off the impulse to just grab her coat and head for home. Instead, she vowed to enjoy herself. It was going to be an uphill battle, admittedly, but she refused to give him the upper hand yet again. He may have broken her, but she wasn't giving him the satisfaction of knowing that. After all, nothing is irreparably broken. 

Allie: take two.

Allie's life just got crazier. Allie is indecisive. She's less than serious. Probably "wild" in her habits, but she's beginning to not care. Life, in Allie's view, is too short to be sensible, and live by other people's rules. She's fickle and insecure, and undoubtedly, not the prettiest girl in the world. She finds it hard to distinguish truth from lies, because so many people tend to lie to her. She reads a lot, and takes in every word. Her friendship group is widening, and she welcomes that. She laughs a lot more now, and is trying hard to ignore what other people think, although it's difficult. She makes mistakes, and doesn't ever intentionally hurt anyone, but accidents happen.

Allie is self-conscious. The girl with the stretch marks, the bad skin, the total undeniable inability to handle her drink. The shy one. The nervous one. The one who, hopefully, in time, changes. For the better. Maybe, we'll see.

"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. 

"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.