Chapter One

It's a strange thing, death. I always thought it would be a lot more painful.

I've heard about other people losing their life, from incidents such as a brutal and blood-stained domestic accident, or having their mangled body pulled from the wreckage of a car by strangers clad in black and yellow. You'd see their brief story and history aired on the television, about how they had lived such a perfect and untainted life; close friends and family would sob, with tear-stained eyes, showing their grief and the emptiness that the deceased had left.

I remember how I would sit too close to the screen, scratching tallies onto the wooden floor panels every time the news readers mentioned death; my skin was cracked and I had countless splinters infecting the underside of my nails, along with small clumps of dried up blood. Even when the power was out, I'd sit on the cold ground; knees tucked up to my chest and my legs pulled in close, my arms secured tightly around them, not daring to let go. No one else would show such affection to me, so I spent more and more time rocking back and forth in a darkened corner of my living room, alone.

I remember the piles of letters and tabloids that would stack up by my front door, and how, every week or so, someone from down the street would notice my extended absence, and come knocking at my door. The tapping at the glass panes would startle me and break me away from the safe haven in my mind, so I never opened it for anyone. I never opened the curtains either, as the sunlight would sting my sensitive eyes, and my pale skin would easily burn and start to peel. Even now, with the evening sun beaming through the green-tinted water surrounding me, I can still feel the slight heat on my motionless body.

Sometimes, the light breaks through the blinds to my bathroom, and casts a dancing shadow across the dirtied water in the bath tub. I'd lay back, letting the liquid cradle my head and consume all of my skin as I submerged myself – I'd keep my eyes wide and stare as the bubbles escape my nose and rush to the surface – and I wouldn't come up for breath until I feel my lungs desperate to break away from my ribs, and swallow in great quantities of air. I'd push up, spluttering a little as I try to remove the foreign substance from my airways. But I would take the greatest care to not spill any onto the cracked tiles covering the floor, as I needed to keep it; all of it.

It's the same with the sheets on the bed – now filthy and torn – and the china plates resting, still, on the chilled kitchen surfaces. I can't move anything, as I fear change; I've kept everything the way it was. The way it was when she was still with me.

The bath water, the bed and the small amount of food residue has remained, even a year after her, I've kept it all.

When it's raining outside, I would press my bruised arms against the coldness of the glass doors – softly touching the panes with the pads of my fingers – and feel the gentle drumming of each drop meeting the glass. I would still be able to feel the slight warmth of her cheek contrasting with the weather outside as we would sit, arms around each other, and talk for hours, doing nothing but  watch the day roll by. We would whisper sweet nothings to each other, and her laughter would warm me up, even on the coldest of days.

Much like how we would lie together, beneath the bed sheets, with nothing to obstruct the contact of our skin and the sweet kisses we'd share. She would tell me that she loved me, and I loved her back. But the definition of love could depend on the person.

I know her definition was very different from that of my own...




"Hello, would you like to order anything?"

The voice of the young woman broke me away from my meaningless thoughts, and I looked up at her, before shaking my head slightly, sending her on her way. I watched for a while; analysing her pace, her features, her body language. I deducted she was still in college, using this job as an opportunity to make some extra money, besides that which her parents were providing her with. She was living with two other people; a woman and a man – most likely her boyfriend – which was made obvious by the shade of deep red lipstick she had applied. It was very likely that she was meeting up with him at the end of her shift. Once she had disappeared through the kitchen doors, I turned my head back to the rack of seasonings in front of me; attempting to count each individual grain of salt in the glass pot nestled between the pepper and ketchup packets.

I could vaguely hear the passing motors outside of the oversized window to the cafe, and every now and again, the door would creek slightly as a lorry or heavier vehicle drove by.

I was sitting in the very corner to the bustling room, with a lukewarm coffee wrapped in my hands, and four or five empty sugar sachets in a neat line, besides one another, on the table in front of me. From here, I have the best view of every person in the room; I like to people watch. There are so many things I learn from the people who come and go for the few hours I sit on this rickety chair. I can find out about what is going on in the world, even just by looking at the types of suits businessmen wear, and the styled outfits young women display. Today must be a bad day, as a flustered looking man just stormed through the door – the draught sent an older woman's magazine soaring from her manicured hold – and threw the daily news paper down on a table two away from my own, before sitting down after. He sighed and ran his stubby fingers through his dark, balding hair before stopping them over his face. The stock markets must have crashed again.

I took a sip of the now cold drink; the bitter sweet taste immediately assaulted my tongue, and I shivered slightly as I felt the liquid slither down my throat like a cold-blooded reptile. I placed it back down onto the saucer with a small chink, and swallowed; running my tongue along my top teeth, collecting up the small grains of un-dissolved coffee that I had missed.

When I looked back up again, the dark-haired man was resting his forehead against his folded arms on the greasy table top; his tie was carelessly thrown in front of him, half of it dangled over the edge and swayed like the pendulum in a forever aging clock. My eyes followed the slow movement, and I counted the amount of times it repeated its forward and back motion, before it became completely stationary; 27. I blinked. The striped pattern appeared in negative behind my eyelids. Looking back around the room again, the marks followed, almost as if they were now engraved onto my pupils. I blinked again. They vanished, like they had somewhere better to be than with me. But it doesn't hurt, as I prefer to live in solitude.


I struggle to remember my family; even the meaning of the word. If I think hard enough, faint flickers of my past dash across my memory, desperate to escape the eye which seeks them. But remembering those people, who I have nothing in common with, besides the odd genetic similarity, doesn't sound at all that appealing.

The brief thought I have of my mother was way back when I was younger, perhaps just a toddler, and I had fallen off of a small, crumbling brick wall outside of my third house. She was standing in the doorway, the stump of a burnt out cigarette between her thumb and fore finger – the smoke still lingered around her body, like an aura – watching me as I cried on the unforgiving concrete; damaged knee exposed to the autumn air as the blood trickled down my leg, staining my scuffed second-hand shoes. I can remember the smells, the tastes, and the feelings more than the look on her face. But I know she was smiling, not in a loving and caring way like a mother should, but smiling. If I remember correctly, she discarded the ashes to the side, and turned to walk back inside the house, leaving me to pick myself up, and hurriedly limp in after her; tears making the skin on my cheek feel tight.

She died when I was thirteen.

I found her greyed body tangled underneath her bed sheets, bathed in the scent of undignified scenarios and tobacco. She was in nothing but torn, black underwear, and her make-up was smudged down her sharp cheek bones and pained face. However, her dirty blonde hair strayed away from this catastrophe, creating a halo around her.

I smiled slightly on one side. That's the closest to an angel she ever became.

I gently closed her misted eyes, tucked the sheets in around her, kissed her forehead and walked from the room.

My father doesn't even have a story; I don't know who he is. He was one of the many mistakes my mother made, and I've never been encouraged to make an effort to find him.


My train of thought derailed when I heard a car horn outside, causing me to glance up lazily to gaze out of the window. The stereotypical English clouds had crawled their way towards the seaside town, overpowering and blocking out the painful sun. From where I was sitting, I could see the grey-streaked sky hovering over the swirling horizon, stalking its way towards the land; leaving tiny bullet holes in the sea from where the rain had shot. I had always loved the rain, as it was such a unique, natural phenomenon; it could damper happy moods, wash away any fears and worries we have collected since the last visit it made, and even bring new, and sometimes unwanted life.

My cup was empty, I realised, after staring down at it for a few unknowing seconds. So I released it from the grip I had imprisoned it in – it concisely stuck to my warm hands, before giving in and leaving – and instead put my hand in my pocket, searching for any loose pennies that may be roaming wild within. I sacrificed thirteen one-penny pieces, one hundred and fifty pence in fifties, and six two-pence coins, before standing up slowly as my muscles had stiffened. I set my sights on the soon-to-be-falling-apart door, and made my way over. When I passed the business man, conversely, time slowed down for a few milliseconds as I analysed everything of importance. It was going to rain for quite some time.

This thought made me smile the slightest in my eyes, as my pace gained an unnoticeable few seconds of speed; eager to feel the wetness caress my skin.

Upon leaving my daily roost, I breathed in the musky scent which signified the coming of the season, and allowed the cold air to pour down my throat and into my lungs; the sensation of swallowing needles made me feel most content.

A middle-aged woman pushing a pram hurried past me, almost certainly on her way to pick up an older child from school. Her floral perfume left a small trail in her wake, and is slithered it's way to my nose, making me twitch slightly. I needed another coffee.

Keeping that thought on my mind, for now, I set my pace at stroll towards the North side of the town, where the ocean was a lot less extravagant.

Further along, a small group of four young adults strode past, two of them dressed as if clones of each other; a baseball cap with an oversized peak, covered by the hood of a size-too-big sweater, whilst almost blindingly bright footwear revealed themselves from underneath their baggy jeans. The closest to me was an adolescent man – still living with his parents, although he likes to try and hide that fact. Even though it is painfully obvious that his mother has ironed and neatly folded his jean trousers – was whispering rather loud to a skinnier redhead next to him; something uninteresting about the way I looked. The skinny boy laughed out loud, presumably fake, signalling the first teenager to ram his shoulder hard against my own. He stumbled, not expecting me to tense, and two tag-along girls – without any sense of dignity – giggled overdramatically behind him. He glowered at me before voicing some unnecessary thoughts.

I didn't slow down my pace at all throughout.

When I reached the end of the street, I finally came to a halt, and looked up towards the blackening sky. The rain wall was now only a few minutes away from striking, so I laid myself down on a grassy bank, leading down to a ditch at the beginning of the beach. I sprawled myself out; arms perpendicular to my body, and my legs stretched out straight down. The grass was already slightly damp, due to condensation and mist, but the moisture felt good against the back of my neck. I allowed my eyes to flutter closed and I swallowed one large mouthful of oxygen, holding it until I felt a mild touch of timid liquid just below my lip. The air trickled from my lungs as I allowed my breathing to regulate, and I let my body succumb to the water droplets that had began to gather in each indent in my skin. Some clustered together and formed larger drops on my eyelashes, causing them to become weighted and stick to my cheek. Others resisted the barriers, and formed a pathway down the sides of my face, determined to reach the earth below.

The rain continued as long as it took for my worn clothes to stick to my skin, and breathing deeply, I sat up. The whistling of the winds' voice through the trees and the humid aroma the water contained was intoxicating, and I didn't want to move. My head tipped forward slightly, to allow any stray drops to be caught down the back of my neck and drive over my vertebrates. The texture was calming; the first time I've felt like this for a while, and I could feel each drop mapping out its own route down my back. In the distance, a solid rumble could be heard, shortly followed by a shocking flash in the towering storm clouds. I could feel the strength the thunder held, as it unleashed its power through the skies once again, and I could feel the drumming through to my core.

A few strands of my hair had made their way in front of my eyes, and I held up my hand to catch the juvenile drops as they cast themselves away from the rest. Every time one leapt, I felt a little calmer, as if part of my thoughts were being washed away by the storms' kin; each one weighing less and less, with a
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...